


Find Ourselves Some Truth

by greyskygirl, superstringtheory



Series: Find Ourselves Some Truth [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Political Animals
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comfort Food, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Slow Burn, TJ Hammond deserves to be happy, and Steve Rogers can make that happen, meet cute, microfractures of the heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7876087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/pseuds/superstringtheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the Triskelion crashed in Washington, D.C., Steve Rogers and TJ Hammond are both ignoring their personal demons and trying to fly under the radar. It almost works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Looking for an Island

**Author's Note:**

> This fic sprang from one of many conversations about tragic!TJ Hammond-- the one that ended in "well, what if we...?" And so here we are.
> 
> There is a playlist for this story, and each chapter has a song. For this chapter, it's "Think You Can Wait," by The National.
> 
>  _I was drifting, crying / I was looking for an island / I was slipping under / I’ll pull the devil down with me one way or another_
> 
> Updates should happen once a week.

It’s only a 10-block walk from his apartment to the VA, and normally it’s a walk he enjoys. It gives him time to sip his coffee and clear his head; the first is a requirement to function, and the second is much the same, these days. It’s the nation’s capital, and it’s fall, and that’s a combination pleasing in both its aesthetics and the much-welcome drop in temperature. The first day he could drag his much-loved leather jacket out of the closet without fear of spontaneous combustion was a good day indeed.

Except today, it’s raining, and TJ Hammond is a man without an umbrella. He could pick up his pace, but he’s not in a hurry, and the cool rain is almost soothing as it hits his neck and rolls lazily down his back. The rain started when he was halfway down his block, and he could’ve gone back, sure, and he could still snag an overpriced umbrella from one of the sellers that appears on the corner every time it rains. But it’s weirdly grounding as the rain pings gently on his skin, and TJ finds himself laughing.

Even if he shows up soaking wet, it’s not like it’ll be the roughest he’s ever looked.

He can think back to a December day, an empty bottle and a garage filled with gas for that - a memory that will always be too vivid, one he still sees reflected every time his mother looks at him with somber eyes.

But he’s almost three years past that moment now. He’s doing pretty well, at least when he looks in the mirror and thinks of where he’s been. He’s doing pretty well, as far as TJ Hammond goes. Maybe not so well if the comparison stretches to his twin, but then Dougie’s always set that bar a little too high.

Really, though, he thinks as he rounds the corner and his destination comes into view. He’s doing pretty well.

Teaching piano lessons at the VA for veterans’ kids hadn’t exactly been at the top of his to-do list a couple years ago. Then Doug and Anne got married, and then Elaine Barrish abandoned her presidential hopes to accept a Supreme Court nomination (after a brutal Senate confirmation), and then TJ decided it was his turn.

He’s never asked about the strings his mother pulled so that he could audit some classes at American; he knows that, in spite of everything, he’s still ten kinds of lucky to be living the life he is. (To be living at all, if he wants to put it bluntly.) Mostly he’d wanted to sit in on the music classes, but then he picked up a pamphlet on the teaching program and thought, _Maybe_.

He wasn’t ready for the rigors of a formal program, but it felt good to be focused on something. And then the focus sharpened into interest, and he thought again, _Maybe_.

He’d kept the maybes to himself and just kept going to class, sitting - not slumping - in the back and finding himself entirely caught up in the ideas and the energy that were trademarks of all Dr. Snyder’s lectures on the arts in special education.

Dr. Snyder, or Alex, as TJ had come to call him. But Alex was firmly in the past. The present is Corey, seven going on 17, learning a Randall Hartsell song for the upcoming recital.

TJ climbs the familiar steps, pausing under the building’s overhang to shake off some of the droplets clinging to his jacket, smoothing a hand through his soaked hair. He’s been walking these halls for a few months now, his expensive sneakers in stark contrast to the worn linoleum. But he feels good here: the kids are mostly eager to learn and fun to teach, and then there’s Corey, with a chip on his shoulder TJ recognized on sight.

Corey’s waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and TJ grins, letting his shoes squish loudly as he approaches. Corey’s bored gaze slides over to him.

“Ever heard of an umbrella?”

“Nah,” TJ says easily, sliding the key out of his pocket as he reaches the door to the music room. “I like the way the rain feels.”

Corey rolls his eyes and follows TJ into the room. “You’re gonna get sick,” he says, sliding onto the bench of a baby grand piano that’s lived a longer, rougher life than TJ. “My dad’s _always_ sick.”

TJ shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over a chair by the window, hesitating before he answers. He hasn’t met Corey’s father yet; Corey’s lessons are carefully timed to coincide with therapy appointments, but Corey always claims he’s supposed to meet his dad in the lobby. 

“Well,” he says slowly, sitting down on the bench beside Corey and setting the sheet music out, “if he’s here, it’s because he wants to get better. Right?”

Corey’s face is a storm of emotion, but he says nothing, so TJ nudges his shoulder.

“Did you practice? Let’s hear it.”

Small hands hover briefly above the keys, and then Corey launches into the song’s delicate melody. TJ closes his eyes: he doesn’t need to watch to listen. The music’s almost ethereal, setting a mood both peaceful and cheerful - something the composer excels at - and he sits in perfect stillness, making mental notes as Corey plays.

“You did practice,” he says approvingly when Corey finishes the piece and lifts his hands. “And you only had a week to learn it, so I’m pretty impressed. Here, switch me.”

And as is their habit, Corey scoots off the bench to allow TJ to slide into his place. TJ rests his hands on the keys, relaxing further at the feel of familiar ivory under his fingertips, and launches into the same song.

It’s how he likes to teach - by example, rather than exhortation. It’s just simpler when he’s playing, and Corey’s a natural, easily able to pick up on the nuances between TJ’s polished performance and his own.

When he finishes, Corey’s sporting a thoughtful frown. “I missed some of the sharps. And I’m too loud.”

TJ nods, stretching a finger out to point at the sheet music. “Just a little. Remember, I showed you where to look?”

“M-P,” Corey reads. “So, like, in the middle?”

“Mezzo piano,” TJ affirms. “A little softer than normal.”

It’s an accurate reflection of his life these days - the tempo’s a little slower, the noise a little softer. It’s good for him, this calm. He’d worried he’d be restless, and he knows his family still worries, but the hum of energy under his skin isn’t a manic one. He has purpose here, and it may be small and focused, but it feels like a good place to start.

TJ encourages Corey to try the song again and tries to take his own words to heart as the melody starts again, quietly and more measured.

“Yeah,” TJ says quietly, watching the smile bloom on Corey’s face as his fingers dance lightly over the keys. “Just like that.”

***

Steve doesn't mind walking, these days. Gives him time to think, more so than running, which (these days) reminds him of being chased, by the Winter Soldier ( _Bucky?_ ), by HYDRA, by a lifetime built of ice. 

He checks the weather before he heads out, spends too long looking out the window at grey D.C. sky. Grabs an umbrella on his way out the door, but doesn’t need to open it until he’s almost halfway to the VA center, already ahead of time for his volunteer shift. 

No longer does he suffer from chronic asthma, anemia or back pain. These days, Steve Rogers is just chronically early. 

There’s a skinny guy in a black leather jacket running up the steps as Steve’s approaching the VA; umbrella-less and soaking wet. By the time Steve has entered the building, the guy is gone, the only trace of his entrance a line of progressively smaller drips along the hallway. 

Steve’s here to chat with his “war buddies,” as Sam likes to call them. The old brigade, the old guard - guys who served in the Philippines, Western Europe, Korea. Guys who are Steve’s actual contemporaries - inasmuch as he has them (minus Bucky). 

“Hey there, Carl,” Steve says as he walks up to an elderly man in a wheelchair, nubby blue blanket draped over his legs. “How are you doing today?” Steve pitches his voice a little brighter than he feels, notches his volume up and pays attention to his diction. 

“‘Bout as good as expected,” Carl says, voice a little querulous. It took a few weeks for Steve to learn that Carl had served in the Philippines near the end of the Second World War, had watched many of his buddies die in sweltering, relentless humidity. Steve’s even chatted a bit with Carl’s son when he’s come to visit and realized that the little visits with Steve and the other old guard are the first time Carl’s ever talked about his war experience. 

“You’re early today,” Steve continues. “I admire that in a man.” He winks at Carl. “I’m going to go check on Craig. You hang on here and see if the others come along and we’ll be right back.” He pats Carl gently on the shoulder and then heads down the hallway to the assisted living portion of the VA. 

When Steve returns to the common room, pushing Craig’s wheelchair, Carl is quietly conversing with Gayle (a former sailor in the Korean War) and Harold, a fellow WWII vet. 

Steve carefully pushes Craig into the circle, and then pulls a chair over for himself and settles down to have a chat about the “good old days” - sharing remembrances about favorite childhood things, old radio shows, and the like. It makes Steve feel more alive - while he loves talking with Sam or the other fellow Avengers, there are always some things that he just can’t share. Tony teases him about it relentlessly - Capsicle struggling with pop culture again! - but Steve doesn’t really struggle with today’s popularities; he just doesn’t care that much (except about the Food Network; please do not get between Cap and his Food Network). 

Today’s conversation is light and easy, revolving around the upcoming holidays and the memories of those past. It’ll be Halloween soon, in just a few weeks, and the VA is holding a little get-together, at which Steve will be present. The oldsters have little interest in attending themselves, but are looking forward to local schoolchildren stopping by to trick-or-treat in their assisted living wing, and to seeing the costumes. 

“Having trouble coming up with a costume, myself,” Steve shares ruefully, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t really want to go as ‘Captain America’ this year.” 

“Kids’d like it, sure,” Craig pipes in, leaning closer to Steve, “but I can understand why you wouldn't want to.” 

The other men nod along in agreement, and Steve feels a hint of relief. It’s not like he expected the old veterans to think he had to dress up in his Avengers costume for Halloween, but it’s just nice to have some affirmation that he doesn’t have to, and shouldn’t feel obligated, especially after everything that’s happened recently with HYDRA and D.C. - and the vets don't even know the half of it. 

***

Steve has a standing lunch date with Sam after his weekly volunteer shifts, but today Sam’s office door is still closed when Steve arrives. Steve can hear Sam’s voice through the door. Not wanting to eavesdrop, he wanders down the hallway a bit and takes a seat outside a different closed door, from which he can still see Sam’s office. 

There’s silence from behind this new door for a bit, and then Steve realizes that there are people inside this room, too. One of the voices is more high-pitched - a kid, maybe? - and the other is soft but reassuring, teacher-like. 

A piano starts up, and then stops. The teacher-voice says something, and the piano starts again and goes on for several minutes, and Steve thinks it sounds pretty good, until there’s a mistake even Steve’s untrained ear can hear. The teacher voice encourages, and the piano starts again, but then stops after another few mistakes. The kid’s voice gets louder - frustration, but the teacher’s voice is encouraging, reminding the kid of what he’s done well, and fairly pointing out how he could do better. Steve’s impressed - he likes kids, but he never really knows what to do with them. 

Whoever this guy is, he’s certainly a natural. From what Steve can hear - and he’s not eavesdropping, not really, he’s just sitting here and happens to be outside of this lesson - he’s kind and patient and obviously cares about this kid. Steve’s listening so hard to the piano lesson that he jumps guiltily when he hears Sam call his name down the hallway. 

“Steve Rogers! What are you doing over there creepin’ on TJ’s piano lesson?” 

Steve stands up quickly, and strides back over towards Sam’s now-open office door. 

“You know,” Steve says easily, “back in my day, we didn’t have to wait around for our buddies. Everyone was on time. And that was even before all the smartphones.” He gives Sam a sardonic look.

“Back in your day,” Sam shoots back, “I wouldn’t even be able to sit at the same lunch table as you, so don’t you tell me about how everyone was on time.” 

“Fair, fair,” Steve sticks his hands in the pockets of his jeans. 

“Okay, then. Now c’mon, Rogers,” Sam says, grabbing his coat from the hook on the back of his office door. “Let’s go grab some pho and let you tell me a little more about the good old days.” 

Steve’s amenable to this, he really is - but something in him makes him linger just a moment longer, so that Sam has to turn and call over his shoulder again. Steve shakes his head, stops straining to hear more of the piano lesson, and follows Sam down the hall.


	2. Something Used

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TJ and Steve both attend the VA's annual Halloween party. They chat by the food bowl, interest is piqued, but neither removes his mask. Also, Steve eavesdrops on TJ's piano lessons and TJ learns from his grandma that Captain America is also volunteering at the VA.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "One Red Thread" by Blind Pilot. 
> 
> I have to say there was a mile or two / I had the itch to fly and I flew / Now at best we would make our dreams / with something used

This stupid costume happens because of Natasha. Like many unfortunate occurrences in Steve’s life in D.C. lately, it’s Natasha’s fault. That terrible date he went on last month, the regrettable pair of boat shoes-- all her. 

This, however. This is in a class of its own. 

To be fair, Steve had asked Natasha for help with a Halloween costume for the VA party. He had specified that it “alter his appearance” and “disguise his face,” so he supposes that this is what he deserved. 

Regardless, he’s decidedly  _ not  _ enjoying this Incredible Hulk costume. He’s not enjoying Sam’s crow of pure mirth when he opens his office door, and he’s not enjoying the fact that he’ll have to poke a straw through the costume’s mouth hole when he wants to drink some punch. 

Sam, meanwhile, is dressed in an obscenely tight pair of pants and is slathered in enough drag queen makeup to make Steve wonder if Natasha had a hand in his costume, too. 

Sam holds up a hand before Steve can even open his mouth. “I lost a bet, okay? But you have to admit that I look damn good.” He strikes a little pose, and Steve can’t stifle a chuckle. 

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Jareth, but it works, it works.” Steve nods appraisingly as Sam pivots so that Steve can get the full effect. 

“This costume might  _ get _ me pegged,” Sam says, and gives Steve an overly flirtatious look. Steve can feel himself blushing behind his tight mask. 

Steve clears his throat. “Are you about set?” 

“This wig is a god damn annoyance,” Sam says, but even Steve can tell that Sam is already enjoying the hell out of himself. “Ready to go?”

Steve looks down at himself, puffy green muscles and all, and sighs. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

 

****

 

After a few minutes at the party, Steve decides that he’s actually thankful for Natasha’s costuming choice. With the mask on, he doesn’t have to be Captain America, or even Steve Rogers. He can just be “guy in the Incredible Hulk suit,” and he can hang out by the food table as much as he likes. He can stand here and not-creepily look around for someone who might be “guy with teacher-voice.” Not for any particular reason; just that “guy with teacher-voice” sounded nice (and kind of cute?). 

Steve fields more than a few “awesome costume!” comments from kids and even does his best impression of a Hulk smash when an adorably round BB-8 asks him in a lisp. 

He’s just finished that and is receiving a surprising hug around the legs when a guy in a ruffly white shirt, red tailcoat and puffy white wig approaches the food table. 

“Hey there, Henry,” the newcomer says, and Steve’s heart is suddenly jumping up his throat like he’s just eaten a meal of frog’s legs. It’s Teacher-Voice, and there’s no doubt about it: he’s dressed as  _ Mozart _ , for Christ’s sake.

Steve steps away a bit and closer to the food table as Henry disengages himself from Steve’s leg and immediately latches onto Mozart. 

“Hey, buddy,” Mozart says, and bends down to give the kid a little hug. Steve’s watching this interaction out of the corner of his eye as he’s piling small appetizers on his plate. However, soon enough, Mozart’s taking little BB-8 (Henry) by the hand and is helping him fill a plate. 

“Let’s go find your mom,” Mozart’s saying as Steve determinedly spears an olive with a toothpick and rolls up his Hulk mask to place it in his mouth. 

Steve stands there by himself for a while, eating and people-watching. Sam as Jareth is especially fun to people-watch, and Steve is so focused on watching Sam prance around the room that he’s a little startled when someone touches his elbow and says, “Hey, nice costume.” 

Steve looks up. It’s Mozart. 

“Those muscles all yours?” Mozart’s face is mostly hidden by a gold Venetian mask, but Steve can see his mouth quirking up in a little grin. 

“Nah,” Steve replies. “Mostly foam.” 

Steve’s not sure what to say after that, so he rolls his mask back up over his mouth and eats another cocktail sausage. 

“You volunteer here?” Mozart asks, and Steve nods, mouth full of sausage. 

“Me too.” Mozart doesn’t give any other details, but Steve’s  _ positive _ it’s the piano teacher. It just has to be.

 

****

 

_ Mostly foam?  _ TJ scoffs to himself. He’s an aficionado of the male form, so he knows real muscles when he sees them, and when the Hulk bent over to hug Henry, those arms flexed in a way foam does not.

The guy is tall, clearly built (and maybe trying to hide it), and awkwardly sweet with kids. TJ considers a teasing comment about the sausage the guy’s eating, but decides against it.

“Piano,” he offers, pointing across the room at Henry. “I teach lessons, I mean. He just started a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, piano?” If TJ could see more of his face, he would swear that Hulk looks a little bashful. “Think I might’ve heard you playing the other day.” 

Now it’s TJ’s turn to blush. He hasn’t played for an audience who isn’t ten years old or his grandma in years, and he’s a little embarrassed that this guy has apparently heard him play. 

“You were giving a lesson,” Hulk says quickly when TJ doesn’t say anything. “I was just waiting for my friend to be done in a meeting.” Hulk seems like he wants to run his hand through his hair but forgets that he’s got on the tight green mask. Yeah, that’s definitely not foam. 

TJ takes a sip of punch for something to do, and Hulk rushes on. 

“Veterans,” he says. “I volunteer here with the vets. Keep them company, sit and chat, you know?” 

“That’s nice,” TJ says, and it is. It also means that Hulk will be around the VA sometimes, so maybe TJ will get to see those muscles when they’re not poorly disguised by cheap foam and green spandex.

“Kids are cute,” Hulk says after a moment, spearing another cocktail sausage. “Which costume’s your favorite?” 

TJ scans the room slowly until his gaze alights on Corey, animatedly demonstrating his costume’s accessories to a group of peers.

“Captain America, for sure.” 

Hulk chokes on his sausage.

 

****

 

TJ raises an eyebrow. The effect’s slightly hampered by his mask, but Hulk blushes, clearly having caught the expression.

“Not a fan?” TJ asks. “I mean, I get it. There’s the whole saving the world thing, multiple times, so sum that up as annoying do-gooder. And the ridiculous muscles -- no one is actually built like that. Don’t worry, though.” He smirks, reaching forward to pat the foam muscles of Hulk’s chest. “Looks like you’re doing okay for yourself.”

Hulk sputters a little, even stumbling backward, and TJ feels a wave of guilt. The guy said he volunteered, but that doesn’t exempt him from PTSD. It definitely doesn’t mean he wants to be patted down by a stranger.

He holds both hands up, apologetic. “Sorry, man, that was out of line.”

Hulk’s padded shoulders straighten, and his green head shakes. “I’m-- it’s fine.” He turns slightly, seeming to squint through the costume as he looks across the room. “I should actually -- my friend.”

Hulk points, and from what TJ can tell, he’s indicating Sam, who looks absolutely, insanely over-the-top and peacock-proud of it. That Hulk knows Sam doesn’t really give TJ any clues; everyone here knows Sam.

“Yeah, of course,” TJ says, popping an olive into his mouth. “Maybe I’ll see you around, friend of Sam. We’ll see if I recognize you without all those muscles.”

Hulk nods stiffly and then he’s gone, moving swiftly across the room, pausing to flex a couple times when kids squeal at his costume. He’s kind of charming and kind of awkward, and TJ finds himself kind of interested.

He catches Corey’s eye and waves, quickly checking to see whether Corey’s dad is around. Maybe he can finally introduce himself, brag a little about Corey’s talent, but the only adult nearby seems to be his grandma, who TJ’s met before. It’s her piano that Corey uses to practice, her house where he spends his afternoons. TJ decides to head over anyway: a kid like Corey can always stand to be complimented. It’s a far cry from how he used to spend a Halloween night, he thinks, straightening first his jacket and then his wig, but he steps a little farther from that path every day.

 

****

 

“Before you ask,” Sam starts when he sees Steve approaching, “No, I have not stolen any babies tonight. Nor do I plan to.” Sam surveys Steve’s face. “You okay, dude?” 

“I’m…” Steve’s really not sure how he is. 

“Saw you talking to TJ.” Sam gives a knowing look (or that could just be the eye makeup). 

“Yeah, he’s… really nice.” 

“He’s a cool dude. Had a rough time, but he’s getting through it.” Sam pats Steve on the shoulder. “You about all partied out, Rogers?” 

Steve doesn’t want to be partied out. It’s a gymnasium with black and orange streamers, for Christ’s sake. He’s dressed as Bruce and no one had cottoned on to his real identity. 

“Yeah, I guess so.” 

“You need a lift?” Sam raises an eyebrow-- or at least Steve thinks he does. 

“No, I’m good, I’ll walk it. Need a little fresh air. It’s not easy being green, you know.” 

Sam barks a laugh at this, and pats Steve on the shoulder again. “Okay, dude. Thanks for coming.”

 

****

 

TJ pulls the thin coat of his costume a little tighter around him as he walks home. If only Mozart had had a leather jacket. He shivers, glad that he lives only a few blocks away from the VA, meaning that he’s only a few blocks away from making himself a nice hot cup of coffee as black as that favorite leather jacket. 

_ It’s too late for coffee _ , Dougie would tell him, tutting over his twin as he is wont to do, but TJ doesn’t really feel ready for bed yet. 

By the time he unlocks the door of his apartment and starts the coffeemaker, his piano’s calling to him, and he takes a seat at the bench while he waits for the coffee to brew. 

The song that comes to mind is one that he’s working on with one of his older students, but he’s not thinking about lessons right now -- instead, he’s thinking about the mysterious Hulk. Friend of Sam, tall, clear blue eyes like Paul Newman, veteran? Probably gorgeous, probably not gay, probably not someone TJ should be spending any time thinking about. 

Still, as he plays too late into the night, nursing his coffee, he can’t help feeling like there was a connection there. Can’t help thinking--  _ maybe _ .

 

****

 

TJ wakes up abruptly to the ringing of his phone, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and realizing he never fully changed out of his costume. He’s sprawled facedown, shirtless, wearing only Mozart’s baggy red breeches, and he stretches to snag his phone off the nightstand.

“‘Lo?” The greeting comes out as a mumble, and he rolls over so his face isn’t mashed into a down pillow.

“Get that cute butt out of bed, sonny. You’re taking me to breakfast. I need mimosas, and I need gossip.”

Even as he groans -- a sound he quickly muffles, or he’ll never hear the end of it -- TJ’s grinning and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Give me an hour,” he says, and his grandmother hangs up immediately, her mission accomplished.

True to his word, fifty-eight minutes later, he’s sliding into a chair, and across the table, Nana grins and raises her half-full glass to him.

“Pretty and punctual!” she says with a wink. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Hey,” TJ protests, matching her grin. “I’m  _ always _ pretty.”

Nana concedes his point and beckons the waiter over to order herself another mimosa. She raises an eyebrow in TJ’s direction, and he shakes his head.

“Coffee, please,” he says, and Nana smiles at him. He could have a drink, he could. But he feels stronger every time he declines, and he’s pretty sure the wise-eyed former showgirl across from him knows it. For the first time since he can remember, it seems maybe his family’s starting to expect him to succeed. 

Maybe he’s even expecting it of himself.

TJ scans the menu and asks for toast and fruit. Nana purses her lips and orders crepes and bacon. 

“I’m barely awake. It’s too early to eat.”

“Or too late. Or too something. Sonny, I appreciate hipbones as much as the next one, but you’re not a starving artist. It’s not your best look.”

He knows this refrain well by now: he’s not eating enough, he’s not sleeping enough. All TJ hears, though, is that still -- even clean, even doing something productive -- he’s not enough.

Time for evasive maneuvers.

“So you accomplished your mimosas,” he says as Nana finishes her second. “Not sure I’ve got much in the way of gossip. Hey! Did you know Anne’s pregnant?”

Six months pregnant, which makes his gossip as stale as the toast on his plate. He takes a bite, grimaces, and busies his fingers tearing the crusts off.

Nana sends him an unimpressed look. “You don’t say. It’s a good thing I don’t rely on the likes of you to get information. From what I hear, you’re not the VA’s most famous volunteer these days.”

That news wouldn’t exactly break his heart, but TJ’s instantly skeptical. He’s flying mostly under the radar with his lessons, but he’s well aware of the conversations both his parents had to make that happen. (The apology he made for both those conversations is how he met Sam, who’d just grinned at him and said, “Parents, right?”)

“Hate to break it to you, but your sources are probably wrong,” he says with a shrug. “I’m there enough; I’d know.”

“Not if someone has better connections than you do,” Nana offers smugly, forking a bite of crepe into her mouth. “I know that’s hard to believe, sonny, but Captain America has some pretty high-powered friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, come scream at us on tumblr at [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) and  
> [superstringtheory](http://superstringtheory.tumblr.com)! We like talking about the life-ending tragicness of TJ Hammond, how pretty Seb Stan is, and many related topics. :)


	3. The Life I've Had Can Make A Good Man Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths.
> 
> _Good times for a change / See, the luck I’ve had / Could make a good man turn bad_

Steve swears that he’s not really thinking about what it means when he fills up a Thermos with homemade chicken and rice soup and leaves it on TJ’s piano bench, along with a note and a small baggie of cookies.

Sure, he’s creeped on a few more piano lessons, ostensibly waiting for Sam. There’s something comforting about listening to TJ’s soft voice giving corrections, hearing his lithe fingers demonstrate melodies for the kids. 

As far as Steve knows, TJ doesn’t know him from Adam, and even though a small part of him is aware that it might be a little weird to bring soup and cookies to someone you haven’t met in person (at least not behind a mask), something about the piano teacher just sparks a protective feeling. 

And throws gasoline on the little fire he’s never been able to put out: the idea that Bucky’s still out there, somewhere. The first time Steve saw TJ without the Venetian mask, just in profile, saying goodbye to one of his lesson kids at the door, he’d almost had a heart attack. 

TJ looks so much like Bucky did before the war that it hurts. 

That first time, Steve had staggered back to Sam’s office like a man wounded by a World War II bullet, 70 years later. 

“Sam,” he’d croaked. “Did you ever notice… that TJ looks… kind of like Bucky?” 

“Your Bucky?” Sam had tapped his pen on the desk. “Steve. The resemblance is seriously scary. And your Bucky’s a pretty scary dude.” 

Steve had run his hands through his hair, then, and he’d had to sit down and think about it for a while. 

Now, though, after more listening to the sweet way TJ gives corrections to his students when they make mistakes, or watching out of the corner of his eye as TJ hugs his youngest students goodbye, Steve can tell: his attraction to the piano teacher isn’t because of his resemblance to Bucky. It’s in spite of it. 

***

_ He’s had kind of a rough time of it, but he’s doing well now _ , Sam had said of TJ, and Steve believes it. Now that he’s been able to see TJ sans-Mozart gear, beyond the superficial likeness, TJ and Bucky are less alike than Sydney Carton and Charles Darnay. 

Now that he sees TJ, really  _ sees _ him, from what he can tell: the guy is subsisting on caffeine and not much else. It’s not like Steve’s been spying on him, he’s just waiting for Sam, obviously, and while he’s been waiting for Sam he’s noticed certain things about the piano teacher. One, he seems to favor skinny jeans, scarves and sweaters. Two, the jeans and sweaters seem to hang on his lean frame a little, like he’s lost some weight. Three, even though there’s no denying that TJ is beautiful, there are omnipresent dark circles under his wide grey eyes.

Steve wants to fix it, and Steve Rogers has never been any good at half-assing things. 

***

Thus, the Thermos. The soup. The cookies -- which Steve is going to swear on his life that he made himself, but they actually came from the Dog Tag Bakery -- and the note. 

Something about the piano teacher just makes Steve want to bundle him up in sweatshirts and feed him warm things. He looks like someone who could use a little caring for; who might need a little well-intentioned manhandling onto the path to proper self-care. Steve, who was once on the receiving end of Bucky’s version of this type of care, knows just how important that can be. 

It’s those good intentions that have Steve hesitating when he arrives at the VA and finds the piano room locked. Asking Sam to let him in is immediately rejected as an option; Steve’s not sure he can bear to be teased about this yet, plus Sam has an uncomfortable habit of asking exactly the question Steve least wants to answer. And it doesn’t seem right to just leave his offerings in the hallway, on the floor. He wants TJ to know they’re meant for him, not to mistake them for trash.

That’s how he decides, after a few long minutes of internal debate, to pick the lock. The hallway’s deserted, and he’s glad for it; he can’t imagine having to explain his actions if someone caught him using the bobby pins he’d borrowed -- yes, borrowed; Captain America may pick a lock for a good reason, but he’s not a petty thief -- from the receptionist’s desk while she was at the copier.

It’s been a while since he’s used these particular skills, but it’s quick work to form the pins into  makeshift tools, and now he’s got the pick and tension wrench he needs. Steve slides the first pin into the keyhole, holding it tense while the pick searches out the binding pin to set it. The first one takes a long minute, and he’s sure someone’s going to come down the hallway to discover him. His fingers are remembering the rhythm now, though, and it’s muscle memory that takes him through the rest of the process: Locate. Set. Repeat. The lock disengages, and he breathes a sigh of relief, sliding into the room.

Now that he’s here, standing beside the piano, it would feel strange, unfriendly even, to just leave the soup and the cookies without anything else. Steve had been hoping to run into TJ, who is normally here by this time (not that Steve’s memorizing his schedule or anything), but his absence leaves Steve in the awkward position of having to write a note. Notepaper and a pen are easily found -- and he’s going to buy Margie the receptionist some kind of gift basket for her unwitting assistance today -- but the wording portion is giving Steve a bit of a struggle. After staring at the blank paper for several minutes, he remembers that the Internet exists and asks Siri “what to say in a note to someone.” 

Siri pulls up the “Notes” function of the iPhone, which Steve does not want. 

“I’ve created a note to ‘Someone,’” Siri chirps, and it takes a lot of resolve not to throw Siri at the wall. Siri is smart but generally useless, in Steve’s opinion. 

Eventually (without the assistance of Siri), Steve writes: 

_ Dear TJ, _

_ Thought you might enjoy some soup and cookies. The soup is chicken with rice, and the cookies are chocolate macaroons.  _

_ Your piano playing is beautiful.  _

_ Your Friend, _

_ Steve Rogers _

***

TJ comes skidding around the corner, panting with exertion, and heaves a sigh of relief when the hallway’s empty. He’s late, and that calls to mind his old habits. Today’s excuse is innocent -- he’d slept through his alarm -- but he has students and responsibilities, and he wants, if not needs, to prove he’s worthy of those, that he can touch something without leaving it broken. Better sometimes feels like too lofty a goal; unbroken is a hell of a start. He approaches the door and frowns to find it unlocked, and then he enters the room and frowns harder.

There’s a large green Thermos on the piano bench and a small baggie beside it. TJ steps forward to investigate, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Mystery substances in a room that’s supposed to be locked? He’s tempted to glance around for paparazzi. There’s a note, too, he sees, so he picks that up, scanning the brief, oddly formal lines curiously.

_ Fuck me _ , he thinks, sitting down abruptly on the piano bench next to the offerings.  _ Nana was right. Captain America. _

The pieces slot together quickly. This explains the Hulk: both his muscles and his reaction to Corey’s costume. 

It doesn’t explain why he’s bringing TJ soup and cookies. “Thought you might enjoy,” TJ reads aloud. His breakfast with Nana is fresh in his mind, and so he scowls, tugging at his fashionably threadbare sweater and wondering if he’s somehow become the D.C. poster child for Feed the Children. 

No one needs to worry about him. TJ’s been clean for -- okay, it’s just months, but his most recent setback was short-lived. One slip. He’d woken up feeling sick and regretful (the same feelings that had compelled him to score) and headed straight for his twin’s door. Dougie heard his confession and assigned penance in the form of weekly NA meetings.

No one needs to worry about him, especially not someone he’s never really met. But Steve Rogers clearly knows his name, and so maybe he knows TJ’s reputation, too. His history. That thought prompts a grimace, and then TJ glances down at the note again.

Chocolate macaroons, the note says. Cookie preferences aren’t exactly classified information, so either Steve’s correctly guessed TJ’s favorite or he’s got a source. Hungry in spite of his reservations, TJ reaches into the bag to pull out a macaroon.

The moan’s involuntary when he takes a bite, and the grimace is replaced with a pleased smile. No way this is a coincidence -- these are his favorite cookies, from his favorite bakery. He stops there once a week on his way to Dougie and Anne’s for dinner; Anne had asked for coconut macaroons (her first craving), and in fulfilling that request, TJ discovered their chocolate companion.

Coffee and chocolate macaroons are his breakfast most mornings, and he’d skipped both today because of his late start. So Steve’s gesture, despite feeling slightly intrusive, is going to get TJ through the next three hours of lessons.

And that, TJ thinks to himself as Henry tumbles through the door with a loud “sorry, Mr. TJ!”, is enough for now.

***

The Thermos finds its way back to Steve via Sam’s office. It’s sitting on Sam’s desk the next time Steve drops by, all washed out and sparkling clean. 

“He even used Dawn,” Sam says, watching Steve inspect the Thermos. “Didn’t just rinse it out like some people.” 

“Huh.” Steve shifts the Thermos from hand to hand. “He say anything to you?” 

TJ had, actually, sliding into one of Sam’s chairs and aiming for a casual slouch as he nibbled on a fingernail. He’d skirted around the issue, asking how many keys there were to the piano room. 

Sam had eyeballed him and said, “You have one. I have one. That all you want to ask me?”

“He’s--” TJ had started to say, then stopped. “Why--” He’d shoved himself out of the chair, tugging his hair with one hand and turning to leave.

“Captain America brought me cookies,” he’d said over his shoulder, and Sam thought it looked like TJ had knocked his head lightly against the wall as he exited.

Steve Rogers tended to have that effect on people.

Now, Sam just fixes Steve with his gaze like a dead butterfly to a board. “What’s it to you?” 

“Nothing. I mean, kid looks half starved. Just thought I’d do something nice for him. A random act of kindness, you know.” 

“A random act of kindness,” Sam repeats, deadpan. “And one that’s got nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that TJ -- who’s far from being a kid -- is one beautiful piece of man, who looks a lot like Bucky?” 

“This has nothing to do with Bucky.” It’s a lie and Steve knows it, but it’s also complicated in ways he can’t even explain to himself, let alone to Sam. TJ’s not Bucky, and Bucky’s not here.

“Uh-huh.” Sam tries to lean back in his office chair but gets snapped back forward. Steve laughs at him, a little unkindly, but Sam deserves it.

“I just…” Steve runs the hand that’s not holding the Thermos through his hair. “I felt something. At the Halloween party.” 

“Anything more specific than that?” Sam asks. “‘I felt something’ is a little vague, dude.” 

“I don’t know. Honestly.” And Steve does think that this is the truth; his feelings are all tangled, knotted around each other. Yes, Bucky is a part of it, but he’s a part of everything in Steve’s life; a shadow Steve hasn’t stepped out of even after growing a foot and a half. 

All Steve knows is TJ looks like he needs someone to take care of him.

***

The next Thermos is coffee, hot and black, picked up from the same place Steve gets the cookies. Oatmeal raisin this time -- they seem wholesome, unlike some of Steve’s feelings regarding the piano teacher. 

The next Thermos after that is another soup, beef noodle and vegetable. Then Italian wedding. More cookies, more coffee. By this point, Steve is seriously hoping that he runs into TJ. 

It doesn’t happen in the piano room, though -- instead, Steve ends up literally running into TJ on the stairs up to the VA building. 

***

TJ isn’t running late today -- today, he’s early, in the hopes of already being in the piano room when Captain Secretive leaves his little comfort food gifts. 

Admittedly, he’s not really watching where he’s going, so of course that’s when he bumps into Captain America himself. 

Despite having been graceful enough to not be killed in battle with aliens, space princes and the like, upon bumping into TJ, Steve Rogers simply seems like a dorky, overgrown kid. 

Steve falls all over himself apologizing, but even this can't distract TJ from the fact that Steve has his hands full. He has another of those damned Thermoses in one hand and some sort of plastic bag is dangling from his elbow, containing what TJ suspects is another sandwich and some more cookies. 

TJ takes a deep breath before speaking, and even he’s impressed with the casual quality he manages to inject into his voice. 

“So, I’m loving the soup, but man, you’re killing me with the cookies. I mean, they’re great, don’t get me wrong, but what happened to the chocolate macaroons?” 

Steve just blinks at him, and TJ instantly wants to backtrack, hit delete on his last few sentences. This guy, a national hero (and treasure, c’mon, anyone who has seen those biceps knows that much) for Christ’s sake, has been bringing TJ cookies and soup, and all TJ can do is complain about the selection? 

The next moment, though, Captain America is laughing and it’s like sunlight in audio format, and Jesus, he’s so attractive that it’s kind of hard to look at him . 

“So you liked them, huh?” Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and TJ feels his own face work up a smile. 

“Yeah. Chocolate macaroons are my favorite.” TJ seems to realize then that he and Steve are still just standing there on the steps to the VA, and that he has to teach a piano lesson in a few minutes. 

“So I have to go teach a lesson,” TJ starts out, “but after that, I’m going to have to get some coffee. I was thinking maybe you’d like to join me?” 

This time Steve’s not laughing, he’s smiling so hard TJ feels afterimages of it in his eyes. 

“That’d be great, yeah.” Steve runs his free hand through his hair so that some of it sticks up a little, and TJ has to blink. This is really happening. 

“Okay, I really do have to go,” TJ says, glancing at his watch. “Don’t like to be late for the kids-- you know?” 

“Of course.” 

TJ moves to open the door to the VA but Steve beats him to it. TJ nods in thanks and waits a moment for Steve to enter the building after him.  

***

TJ worries for about five seconds that he’ll be distracted during Corey’s lesson, because the thought of his coffee date with Steve is a powerful distraction indeed. But when Corey stomps in, scowling, and slings his backpack against the wall, all thoughts of Steve and coffee are gone. He stays quiet as Corey flings himself onto the bench, shoulder roughly bumping TJ’s.

It’s when Corey pounds out the first few stanzas of Moonlight Sonata that TJ intervenes. The song’s moody, yes, definitely different than the last piece Corey learned, but Corey’s striking the keys as if they’re ivory punching bags. Beethoven wouldn’t approve, and neither does TJ, even if he understands the impulse to bleed feelings into the music. 

“Whoa,” he says, voice deliberately calm. “You played it better last week. Want to start again?”

Even the gentle critique is apparently too much for Corey, who leaps off the bench with folded arms and wobbling chin, turning his back to TJ. For all his talent and all his potential, he’s still a kid who’s dealing with things well beyond his years. It makes TJ ache a little, the memories of his own youth and his own pain so easily conjured. 

He can remember what he’d have wanted in this same situation.

“This was always one of my favorites to play,” he says quietly. “Even when I was mad-- especially when I was-- and I was mad a lot. You have to control it, the song, and it always made me stop and think about what I was doing.

“It still does,” he admits, and then he plays for Corey, losing himself in music and memory. He doesn’t need the sheet music; he’s always memorized his favorite pieces, and so as his fingers strike and float with practiced ease, he can see Corey slowly turn, then creep closer.

When TJ finishes the six-minute song -- it used to seem interminable to him; now his fingers itch to play on -- and lets his hands slide back into his lap, Corey’s standing beside him, his posture minutely more relaxed.

“Can I just--” Corey starts, then stops, sighs. “I wanna practice some more. At home.”

TJ nods. “Yeah, you can do that. And next week, you’ll be ready.”

Corey’s eyes are shining, now with determination instead of unshed tears, and he returns the nod.

“I’ll be ready.”

***

“So, I know a good place that has chocolate macaroons,” Steve says, leaning against the wall outside of TJ’s piano room. Corey had given TJ an expressive eyebrow raise when he’d seen Steve waiting after his lesson and TJ had just shrugged and mouthed the word “Practice” until Corey had gone on to meet his grandma at the end of the hall. 

“I could go for a chocolate macaroon right about now,” TJ replies, sticking his hands in his pockets. 

“Shall we?” The formal phrasing, the careful part of Steve’s hair -- TJ’s suddenly struck with Steve’s history. He really is a man from another time. 

Something about the way he asks has TJ wondering if this is a date-- but surely it couldn’t be; even if Captain America were gay, he would  _ not _ be interested in someone with as many Xs on his record as TJ: ex-piano prodigy, ex-drug addict, ex-lover of conservative politician... The list goes on. 

Still. The way Steve looks at him, TJ wants to believe. And, taking a deep breath, he willingly chooses to do so. He’s been disappointed before, but he may as well take advantage of going on a date with a gorgeous American superhero. Especially when said superhero is looking at him somewhat shyly from behind long lashes and offering to lead him toward chocolate macaroons. 


	4. Wanted This Far Too Long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: "Show Me What I'm Looking For" by Carolina Liar.
> 
>  
> 
> _Don’t let go / I’ve wanted this far too long / Mistakes become regrets / I’ve learned to love abuse_

TJ shoves his hands into his pockets as they walk. He vaguely remembers seeing his gloves in the corner of his apartment, but in his determination to not be late, he wasn’t stopping even for that one small thing. Steve’s hands are probably warm, he thinks, glancing over at his companion, but they’re definitely not at the hand-holding stage of things yet.

When Steve stops and gestures at a building, TJ looks up and laughs. He regrets it when Steve looks instantly unsure.

“No, no, this place is great. Really.”

“They have chocolate macaroons, at the very least.” 

“Yeah, it’s just funny, because out of all the bakeries in D.C., we found the same one.” 

“Oh.” Steve looks relieved, and TJ kind of wants to hug him. He looks like he’d feel solid; completely present in a way that Sean never managed to be. 

At the counter, Steve orders black coffee, and after glancing questioningly at TJ, a mocha with hazelnut and whipped cream. And macaroons. A half dozen of them. 

They grab a table by the window, and TJ watches in amusement as Steve tries to fold himself into the tiny seat. He bites into a macaroon and makes a noise of pure satisfaction. 

“Good?” 

“Best in the city,” he tells Steve. “I’ve been coming here for months. Since I started giving lessons. How’d you get roped into volunteering? Sam?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair in what TJ can identify as a nervous tic-- he’s probably not even aware that he’s doing it. 

“Sam-- I mean, yeah. And after the whole -- thing -- in D.C., I wanted to do something productive.” 

That “thing” being the Triskelion incident. TJ’s made a habit of avoiding the news, too used to seeing his face and his pain paraded as entertainment, but the national security implications had been all Elaine and Doug had talked about for weeks. Plus, the traffic had been even worse than usual.

And he gets Steve’s motivation, too. He takes another bite of cookie and nods, swallowing.

“Yeah, I get that. You want your days to mean something. That’s-- it’s what I’m trying to do. For once. For a change.” He shrugs and ducks his head, not meeting Steve’s eyes. He doesn’t know, not for sure, what Steve knows about his colorful past, but it’s hardly a topic for a first date.

***

Steve can’t keep his eyes off of TJ-- there’s something magnetic about the soft-spoken piano teacher. 

“So,” Steve starts out, feeling like he should explain more about this whole D.C. thing, why he’s really here. 

“You heard about the Winter Soldier, right?” 

TJ looks a little perplexed, and Steve feels himself relax minutely. If even this son of a major political family doesn’t know what a fuckup he is, maybe there’s still hope. 

“Well,” Steve continues, “it turns out he was -- is -- my old buddy from Brooklyn, back when I was a kid.” 

Understatement: major. Steve feels the need to explain more, even though the task of explaining Bucky Barnes to the doppelganger across the table makes the sweat bead on his brow. His throat feels a little dry, but he keeps his hand wrapped around his coffee cup, letting the heat bleed into his palm and ground him.

“I mean, more than that-- he was--” Steve trails off, because the right words aren’t coming, and he wants to get this right, if there actually is an approved way to tell your date about your brainwashed, supposedly-dead ex-lover’s presence in the 21st century and your every thought.

TJ leans forward, brow furrowed a little. “So what you’re saying is that this isn’t the first coffee you’ve bought a guy?”

Steve ducks his head, a faint flush suffusing his face. “Didn’t exactly buy him coffee, but-- yeah.” 

***

_Shit_. TJ tries to arrange his features into something resembling normality, try not to look like he’s freaking out a little bit. 

Or freaking out a lot, because what Steve is telling him seems to add up to a distinct lack of emotional availability, and TJ knows this story all too well. He’s not inclined to write another chapter, and definitely not with someone as public as Captain America.

Just what he needs to live up to Sean’s old pronouncement: “Pathetic American punchline.”

He gulps his coffee a little too quickly, relishes the burn in his throat because it gives him something else to focus on besides the fact that he’s apparently a magnet for beautiful men who aren’t meant for him.

“I mean,” Steve takes a sip of his own coffee. “It’s not like Bucky was the love of my life or anything. That was Peggy.” 

Shit, shit, _shit_. The name rings a bell somewhere, and TJ feels stupefied for a moment until he remembers -- of course -- _Peggy fucking Carter_ , S.H.I.E.L.D. agent extraordinaire. He gulps more coffee. What is Steve even doing here with him, his famous family’s lesser son? He’s far from being a supersoldier, super agent, super… anything. He’s just a piano teacher in an underfunded VA who can barely handle slapping a sandwich together for himself. Pathetic. American. Punchline. 

His empty cup -- which he awkwardly waves at Steve as he stands and mumbles “refill” -- buys him a few seconds to think. TJ stands at the counter and digs in his pocket to produce the needed change, momentarily wishing he could dig himself a tunnel right out of the building. This is bad, as first dates go, but at least the question of whether there’ll be a second date isn’t going to hang in the balance.

The sandwiches and Thermoses are all adding up now: he’s not a person Steve is interested in. He’s a project. 

He accepts his coffee, takes a deep breath and walks back to the table. Steve looks up expectantly, and TJ gives him a half-smile. He doesn’t sit down.

“So, thanks,” he starts. “The cookies, the sandwiches-- all of it. That was thoughtful of you. And my nana would love to know that Captain America was in on the ‘care and feeding of TJ Hammond’ mission.”

Steve’s brows are drawn together, and when it looks like he’s going to say something, TJ rushes on. 

“You’ve got a lot going on. I mean, obviously. Bucky, Peggy -- that’s a lot. I get it. And I’m all right, I’m doing great. So-- yeah, thanks. For the coffee. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

He turns, cup clutched in his now-trembling hand, and pushes the door open. It figures, right? Should’ve trusted those first instincts. What does TJ Hammond have to offer Steve Rogers? An easy out, at least, a semi-graceful exit from a situation that could’ve only been messy. TJ knows messy, and he knows all about leaving. He can save Steve from both of those.

The air’s brisk on his face, cold enough that the warmth from his coffee instantly vanishes, or maybe it’s the warmth of Steve’s presence that he’s missing. At any rate, it’s gone now, and as TJ hurries down the block, he drops his cup into a curbside trash can. 

*** 

“So then he just left.” Steve swirls the last of his cold coffee in its paper takeout cup. “I don’t know what happened. I thought it was going so well.” 

Sam taps a pencil on his desk, looks thoughtful. “Let’s recap. You brought him cookies and sandwiches and stuff, and then he asked you for coffee, right?” 

“Right.” Steve nods. 

“And then you went to the bakery, and you got coffee… what did you talk about?” 

“Well, we just chatted about the VA, and why we were volunteering there.” 

“Okay… go on…” 

“And I wanted to make sure he knew that I like both. Men and women. So I told him about Bucky… and Peggy.” 

There’s a moment of silence, and Steve thinks that Sam is going to congratulate him on what good communication he’s established-- this is something that both Nat and Sam have told him he needs to work on. 

“You told him about Bucky? And _Peggy_?!” Sam groans and runs a hand across his face. “Dude. You seriously fucked up.” 

“I just wanted him to know,” Steve says, a little defensively. “You know, get all that out there right away so we could move past it.” 

“The sentiment is good.” Sam’s putting on his measured counselor voice. “But the delivery, the timing… _Steve_. How did you think that was a good idea? TJ has had a rough time. He had to come out as a teenager while his dad was in office; has had some very public breakdowns. He doesn’t want to hear about Captain America’s romantic hangups on the _first date_.” 

Sam sighs a little. “Now, I know you haven’t been on a date in a long time, Steve, but-- shit, man. You’ll be lucky if that boy ever even says hi to you again.” 

***

Greeting Steve is the last thing on TJ’s mind. Avoiding the need for that greeting, though, is pretty high on his priority list. Steve’s going to want to say something, since TJ’s hasty exit had deprived him of that opportunity, and TJ has a lot of thoughts about what that something might be.

An apology. No need; Steve doesn’t owe him anything for not feeling the same spark, and he’d been honest, which was refreshing, even if TJ’d been wholly unprepared for Steve’s brand of blue-eyed in-your-face honesty. So sincere, so devastating. So unfair. So understandably focused on the real loves of his past, both of which seem to be be, in their own ways, very much a part of his present. Yeah, that’s a conversation he’s happy to miss.

When it comes as a string of texts from an unfamiliar number, TJ’s almost glad. He can ignore a text, even if Steve’s words make him want to respond. He’s being smart, he reminds himself. He’s putting himself first and not jumping into something that can only wind up hurting him.

But damn it, Steve seems hell-bent on pushing past these carefully constructed defenses.

_Hi, TJ, this is Steve. I stole your number from Sam’s desk._

TJ laughs at that despite himself. Steve might be Captain America, but he’s no Boy Scout.

_I think I gave you the wrong idea when we had coffee. Sam keeps telling me to communicate. He also keeps telling me I’m bad at it. I think you’d probably agree._

Yeah. Hard to argue that point. TJ’s been part of many, many awkward conversations in his time, but that coffee date vaulted straight to the top of his list. Everybody’s got a past; he just hadn’t expected Steve’s to be quite so present.

_You’re not Bucky. Or Peggy. And the thing is, I don’t want you to be. Yes, they’ve been the two most important people in my life so far. But I liked you when you were just a voice on the other side of a door, and not because I hoped you were someone else. I wanted you to know where I’m coming from. I’m not good at this._

Neither is TJ. Obviously. And what Steve’s saying makes sense, but all that history? How can he possibly compete? TJ stares at his phone, watching the dots that indicate Steve’s still trying to explain. 

_I just wanted you to understand. Because I wanted to be there with you, on that date. It was a date, and I don’t think I said that. I know I might not deserve it, but if you’re willing, I’d like to try again._

TJ blows out a breath, considering. This laid-bare approach is as appealing as it is unexpected. And it seems hypocritical to deny someone a second chance when he’s had so many of his own. Steve’s last text is an invitation.

_If you’re not busy, maybe we could take a walk on Sunday. I’ll do less talking. Meridian Hill Park, 2 p.m.?_

He’s smiling in spite of himself, and his fingers are tapping out a reply before he really thinks it through.

_Okay._

***

Steve’s early, again. He’s glad for it-- it gives him time to relax a little; drop the military-grade tension from his shoulders, maybe take a few deep breaths and run through a mental list of all the topics that have been stricken from the list of approved topics for conversation. 

Today, he’s going to listen. Listening, Sam had reminded him-- several times, _pointedly_ \-- is a huge part of communication, too, and is also a skill that Steve could stand to work on. Today, Steve is going to let TJ talk and he’s going to look at how pretty he looks in his hipster outfits against a backdrop of D.C. in the fall. 

Steve himself had taken more care with his wardrobe today than he has in a while-- he’d even enlisted Nat’s assistance, and she’d come over and tsked at his entire closet and eventually just gone on his laptop and ordered him a bunch of stuff from a place called The Gap. 

“Is it British?” Steve had asked, and Nat had looked at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. 

“You’re so cute sometimes I could just pinch you.” 

“You do-- ow!” 

“You need it. I heard all about your coffee date.” Nat had raised an eyebrow and Steve had sighed. 

“I’m going to kill Sam.” 

Nat had nodded happily. “Cool. Just wait to do it until after this date, okay? I don’t want blood on these clothes.” 

In any case, Steve feels like he looks good-- normal. Like someone who isn’t an asshole who talks about his exes on the first date with a beautiful guy. 

Which, speaking of-- Steve’s phone pings, and he squints at the screen. 

_Almost there._

He looks up, and sure enough, there’s TJ, in a clinging blue-and-black striped sweater and his usual skinny jeans. Steve can see how pink his cheeks are even from this distance -- no jacket, no scarf, no real sense of self-preservation.

Steve can identify with that last one pretty well. 

TJ’s smile looks a little strained as he approaches, and for a second, it’s like he’s standing in front of Steve at the bakery again, thanking him in that terribly polite, distant voice. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, jogging the last few steps to Steve. “I was working on the recital lineup and got a little lost in it. Did I keep you waiting?”

***

It’s true, he really had been working on the lineup, but that was hours ago, after a night spent at the piano working on sorting out his head. TJ’s running on nerves and three cups of coffee, and he’d stood at the entrance to the park for what felt like minutes, giving himself a silent pep talk. 

And now he’s standing in front of Steve, blinded first by the smile that greets him, then by the whole picture Steve presents, which is a museum exhibit TJ would stand in front of for hours to admire. He hasn’t seen Steve dressed this casually yet -- the jeans are devastating enough, stretched over long legs that manage to be distracting even in khakis, let alone dark denim. But it’s the sweater, a simple grey knit with a trio of look-right-here lines striped in navy across Steve’s broad chest, that makes him swallow hard and pull his gaze back up to Steve’s eyes. 

He’s got a dark wool hat pulled over his blond hair, in what TJ guesses is a futile attempt to go unrecognized. Everything about Steve begs attention, from his muscles to his manners, but in an unassuming way that is too damn charming to be fair. As clear as it is that Steve’s always going to be noticed, it’s equally clear that he’s not trying to be. 

TJ takes a deep breath and then his smile matches Steve’s as he holds out his hand, hoping this gesture plays out the way it had - several times - in his head. 

“TJ Hammond,” he says, wiggling his fingers in invitation. “It’s really good to meet you.”

The look of bewilderment on Steve’s face fades quickly into grateful understanding, and then his warm hand’s enveloping TJ’s. 

“Steve Rogers,” he says, and they stand there shaking hands for a moment, smiling at each other, and then Steve blushes and withdraws his hand. “Should we walk?”

TJ nods, already missing the warmth of Steve’s hand covering his. He’s been here a few times, enough to wonder if Steve knows what’s special about this particular park on this particular day. He chances a glance at Steve’s profile as they begin to walk down the path, only to grin and duck his head when Steve catches him in the act. 

It’s a nice day for November, the kind the city won’t see many more of this year, and so the park’s bustling with activity. TJ pauses to watch two kids struggling to fly a kite, and Steve stops beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush. It’s a nice day; TJ knows his shiver’s not prompted by the weather. Steve’s been awkward and earnest and painfully honest, but what’s never varied is the way TJ reacts to him: there’s something magnetic about him, and it’s got nothing to do with his superhero persona. The rest of the world can have Captain America, but TJ’s pretty sure he just wants Steve Rogers. 

Assuming, of course, that they can make it through a date.

“I never did that,” TJ says, nodding at the kite. “Just-- I don’t know why, really.” Besides that Bud Hammond would rather have a fishing pole in hand than a kite, and Elaine would have watched some godawful educational documentary with him.

“Me either.” Steve’s voice is quiet, and TJ thinks of Steve’s childhood for a moment -- how far away it seems, in decades he needs both hands to count, and yet in years lived, Steve’s closer to those days than TJ is. 

They walk on after a minute, heading up the hill, and TJ can tell the instant Steve hears it: the famous drum circle, a park tradition with a history half as long as Steve’s life. The beat is vibrant and contagious; as they crest the hill, TJ can see the crowd of dancers, drummers and spectators who’ve come together to experience a few random moments of joyous abandon. Steve’s eyes are alight with curiosity.

“You didn’t know?” TJ asks, watching the delighted grin spread across Steve’s face.

Steve shakes his head, watching intently. His fingers are tapping out a beat against his thigh, and TJ thinks about grabbing his hand and dragging him forward. It seems like one of the healthier impulses he’s had, upon a few seconds’ reflection, so he acts on it. A spark of pure attraction jolts up his arm when his hand touches Steve’s -- it feels right in a way nothing, no one has in so long -- and Steve’s fingers curl instantly, thrillingly around his.

“Show me your moves!” he calls as they approach, pitching his voice loudly enough to be heard. It occurs to him to let go of Steve’s hand; then it occurs to him to ignore that thought. But when TJ’s forward progress is halted abruptly by a strong tug on his hand, he turns back.

Steve’s still clutching TJ’s hand, but his feet are planted, and he looks torn: both hesitant and eager. It’s endearing, and TJ squeezes his fingers.

“You coming?”

Steve huffs out a breath, looking pained. “I can’t dance.”

TJ lifts one shoulder in a shrug and grins at him. “Well, then you can watch.”

He slips his hand free of Steve’s with a final squeeze and heads into the crowd, hips automatically starting to shimmy. The drum beat thrums through his whole body, calling him into motion, and he just needs to give in to it, to shake out all the stress from this week (this month, this year, this life) and just _be._ He rolls his shoulders and stomps his feet and feels the smile stretch across his face, and when he pivots on one heel, there’s Steve.

He’s stepped into the crowd now, too, and he’s standing perfectly still -- but not in a way that looks stiff or uncomfortable, which TJ’d half-expected. It’s just that his entire focus, all the power of his presence, is directed at TJ, and the expression on his face is a muted kind of awe. Maybe it’s just amazement that TJ’s willing to look so silly in such a public setting. Maybe he doesn’t yet know that silly is maybe the most innocent of the impressions TJ’s made on the public. And maybe -- maybe -- he just likes what he sees. It’s a heady feeling but not an unwelcome one, so TJ turns his smile up a few watts and keeps dancing, letting all the joy rushing through him show in every movement he makes. 

He’s dancing for Steve, in a way, but he’s also dancing for himself, to capture this moment in all its possibility. He feels happy and free, and the way Steve’s looking at him is better than any high he can remember.

TJ lifts both hands above his head and jumps in time with the nearest group, a cluster of kids giggling and wiggling. Steve’s still watching, and TJ tilts his head, smile turning into an impish grin as he lunges forward to grab Steve’s hand. He’s clearly caught off guard, otherwise TJ couldn’t have budged him, but Steve stumbles forward and then he’s in the circle within a circle.

Steve regains his balance, and he looks so unsure that TJ’s heart clenches. This isn’t Captain America, ready to strategize his way out of a situation; this is Steve Rogers, standing statue-still and looking lost. TJ bites his lip, wondering if he’s overstepped some invisible boundary, and then Steve’s reluctance shifts into a sunshine-bright smile and his feet start to move.

TJ whoops, and that seems to be all the encouragement Steve needs to let go. With awkward abandon, he dances, grinning back at TJ and mimicking his motions as best he can. He’s all glee and no grace, and it’s unfairly charming. The fact that he has no moves is a move of its own, but there’s no calculation and no chase. There’s just Steve.

TJ dances on. Just Steve is enough.


	5. Moving In So Slow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: "So Contagious" by Acceptance
> 
> _You're the only one I would take a shot on / Keep me hanging on so contagiously_

TJ hasn’t seen Steve in a few days, not since the park, but Steve’s been anything but inattentive, which has helped TJ’s happy outlook to linger. TJ’s grateful for his unlimited texting plan: Steve Rogers has a lot to say. He asks questions about TJ’s favorite foods, movies, music, D.C. landmarks, and then expresses a shy willingness to experience them. With TJ. 

When he teasingly accuses Steve of blowing up his phone, instead of a return text, the phone rings immediately.

“Did you leave your phone somewhere?”

“What?”

“Your phone. Nat says someone could have uploaded a remote detonation app, but not if your phone’s passcoded. Is it? Passcoded? You should get a new phone.”

“What?” TJ repeats, trying to stifle his laughter. It’s not the first time Steve hasn’t quite gotten one of his references, but it might be the most hilarious. It’s also sweet, because Steve’s clearly in full-on strategizing mode, trying to simultaneously identify the source of the problem and protect TJ from it.

Teasing him here feels unfair, and so TJ explains as gently as he can that no technology is about to detonate; his phone’s entirely safe. Except from the awful memes Steve’s taken to sending, and even those are charming when they’re attached to Steve’s message thread.

Also charming? Steve’s initial inability to take a selfie. TJ’d sent a quick snap of his grimacing face and windblown hair on his walk to the VA. Steve had replied with a picture of his shoe and then a string of disjointed texts, followed by a picture of the wall. TJ’d called him then, but he’d been laughing so hard it took him a minute to walk Steve through swiveling his phone’s camera around. The result was a close-up of Steve’s forehead.

It backfires spectacularly once Steve gets the hang of it: he’s a golden retriever with a new trick, and now, every ding announcing a new text has the potential to be a real-deal selfie. Steve, still in bed, smiling tiredly. _Hope you slept well._ Steve in a sweat-drenched shirt, fresh from a run. _Gotta get cleaned up! See you for coffee at 10. Can’t wait._ Steve, smiling hugely next to a tiny towheaded girl in braids and a Captain America shirt. _Best part of being Cap._

TJ’s taken to eyeing his phone like it might actually self-destruct -- forget hidden bombs, the real danger here is the miniature shockwaves that detonate in his heart every time Steve reaches out and proves he’s thinking about TJ. He’s in danger. Falling too fast, feeling too much -- they’re viable hazards, and he’s not sure he can navigate around them. 

TJ hustles into the piano room on a Tuesday morning feeling completely prepared for Steve’s usual delivery: soup and cookies, with notes that get friendlier and flirtier each time. There’s no Thermos, and there’s no baggie, but on a short table perched next to the piano, a table never seen before, there’s a plant.

There are no flowers -- just green, spiky leaves that remind him of swords, as if the plant’s poised to do battle to defend itself. 

TJ wishes it luck, he really does.

***

The plant looks somehow at home in his apartment. It’s not in good company; TJ’s not had a house plant before. He can barely manage to feed and water himself, he’s not adding any other living things to the equation. Steve’s note had identified it as a yucca plant, and a quick search told TJ it was hardy -- able to get by with a minimum of care. He stares at the clay pot sitting by his bedroom window for a long moment and wonders when he started identifying with a house plant. 

He looks in the mirror, runs a hand through the poufy mess of hair on his head and straightens his sweater. His slim-fit dress pants are a little looser than he remembered them being, but he doesn’t have any other options, since skinny jeans are definitely not on the list of approved wardrobe options at Elaine Barrish’s Thanksgiving table and he’s not wearing a suit to a family dinner. He’d sooner show up in sweatpants.

TJ’s hoping to fly under the sharp-eyed radar of his family here, assuming that most of the attention will be focused on Doug and Anne and the baby butterball that’s going to make him an uncle in a couple more months. His main goal is to remind the Hammond-Barrish clan that none of them are welcome at the VA recital: he doesn’t need the added pressure, and the event doesn’t need that kind of publicity. 

Which means he can’t confirm Nana’s rumor-mill musings about Steve volunteering there: if they knew, they’d want to see it for themselves, and TJ’s pretty sure that seeing him interact with Steve would be a screaming admission of feelings he’s not fully able to confess to himself, let alone to the family that’s never seen him manage a healthy relationship.

Captain America who? That’s his basic tactical plan. He’s sure Steve could come up with a better one, but that’s another conversation he’s working overtime to avoid. Talking to Steve, about his family? Pass, because when he explains his hesitance, it’s going to lead down the twisted path toward Sean and Alex, and when it comes to having that conversation? TJ’d rather actually be a gold-lamé-clad busker on the busiest corner of the capital. Shilling in sequins holds infinitely more appeal than explaining his not-so-romantic history to a man who’s only ever loved heroes.

He rings the doorbell to buy himself time, and when Anne opens the door, she looks enormously pregnant and slightly manic. He steps forward to hug her, squeezing gently, and she clutches his shoulders, stretching on tiptoe to hiss into his ear.

“Your father keeps touching my belly. Get me out of here.”

“Jesus,” TJ says. 

“He’s three drinks in already,” Anne continues. “Please. Distract him.” She raises her eyebrows at him seriously and then turns around and lets TJ enter the house. 

Fortunately for Anne, TJ’s presence actually does serve as an instant distraction. As he steps into the foyer, Nana claps her hands together sharply. 

“That’s what I like to see. Fresh meat!” 

TJ groans, affectionately rolling his eyes. “That’s how you talk about your favorite grandson? Explains so much about this family.”

“Favorite grandson? You wish.” 

“Aw, Dougie,” TJ says as his twin steps forward to hug him. “You get to be the stable, respectable one. That makes me the favorite.”

“That makes me sound boring,” Doug grumbles, and Anne chokes on her laughter.

“It’s okay, honey,” she says, stepping to Doug’s side with a hand on her swollen belly, smiling at him in a tender way that makes TJ ache with contentment for his brother, who gets to have this real, true thing. He doesn’t dare that dream just yet. If ever.

“I knew I was marrying the Hammond least likely to wear leather pants when I walked down the aisle,” Anne adds, and they all laugh at the mock-aggrieved expression on Doug’s face.

“My pair’s in my bag.” That drawl belongs to Bud, who greets TJ with a hearty slap on the back, his grin loosened by the liquor.

“And that’s where they’ll stay,” Elaine says firmly, sweeping past Bud to engulf TJ in a cloud of silk and Chanel No. 5.

TJ returns the hug, and when Elaine pulls back, she studies his face carefully. 

“You look tired,” she says, touching a wine-colored fingernail lightly to the dark circles under his eyes.

“And skinny!” Nana chimes in, lifting her glass to her lips.

“Jesus,” TJ says again. “Good to see you, too. Any other critiques? How’s my hair?”

“It’s not a critique, TJ. We just worry.” Elaine looks as though she’s gearing up for a monologue about a mother’s love and all the gray hair TJ’s cost her, and then Anne jumps in.

“Someone tell me it’s time to eat,” she says, rubbing her belly. All the attention shifts to her, and as Elaine hurries toward the kitchen, Anne shoots TJ a sly wink.

“I love you,” he mouths at her, grinning.

Within five minutes, the dining room table is laden with an impressive Thanksgiving feast. Elaine sits at one end of the table, surveying the spread with the calm satisfaction of a woman who long ago learned how to play to her strengths and call a caterer for holiday meals. Her one contribution is sitting on the sideboard with the other desserts, in stark contrast to the traditional, elegant offerings surrounding it.

She’d made it first when TJ and Doug were six, and TJ’s enthusiasm brought the dish back the next year, and the next, until it was accepted as a Thanksgiving standard. It’s weirdly comforting, year after year, to see the gaudy platter he and Doug had painted holding what’s still his favorite dessert, even now: whoopie pies with pumpkin filling.

He’ll have to get a picture of them for Steve.

Dishes are passed, plates are filled and the Hammond Thanksgiving begins in earnest. 

A little while later, TJ’s phone vibrates in his pocket, and he carefully pulls it out and glances at it in his lap. Text from Steve. It’s a picture message, so he maneuvers his phone sideways so he can peer at a widely-grinning Steve, next to Sam and surrounded by what must be Sam’s entire extended family, including a chubby-cheeked baby who’s grinning at Steve instead of the camera. 

_Happy Thanksgiving, TJ. I’m thankful I met you._

TJ feels a smile curl his lip, wanting to widen to a grin and he quickly pats his napkin to his mouth to hide it.

“You’ve been quiet over there,” Nana says soon after, as TJ’s resolutely forking turkey into his mouth, not allowing himself to think too much about the hot glow of his phone and Steve’s text. It’s like holding a live coal in his lap, and yes, the location is ironic. This isn’t the time to think about Steve, or the things he’d like to do with Steve, or even the things he’s yet to tell Steve. It’s-- it’s Thanksgiving, and this year he’s not hiding a drug problem or a secret boyfriend or both. 

Steve’s not his boyfriend, so there’s no hiding. 

“Just eating,” TJ says finally. 

Nana surveys him over the top of her wineglass. “All righty, then. So hand me your plate and let me give you a little more stuffing. You can use it.” 

TJ swallows a little too quickly and has to take a drink of water, but passes his plate over. 

His phone buzzes again. 

_Hope everything is going well with your family._

Nana clears her throat, and TJ jumps slightly to see that she must’ve been holding out his plate for a few moments. He hadn’t noticed.He takes it, offering her a sheepish grin as he tucks the phone into his pocket. As he sets his plate down, the room is quiet, and he glances up. Everyone’s watching. 

“Sorry, just--” he shrugs. “It was a friend, wishing me a happy Thanksgiving.” He flashes his brightest smile. “And that’s what we’re having, right?”

***

“So tell me this fella’s name again,” Sam’s grandma Ida says, patting Steve’s arm. She’d actually felt his bicep up earlier, giving it a nice hard squeeze, and he’d also had to place her hand back on the table when it had started creeping over to his lap. 

Steve sighs. “Sam, you’re killing me here. I thought I was supposed to have a quiet, relaxing family Thanksgiving.” 

Sam bursts out laughing. “Man, the Wilsons are anything _but_ quiet and relaxing. I think you knew what you were getting yourself into.” He takes another bite of turkey, then directs his next words back at his grandma. “And his name’s TJ. Steve’s new guy. TJ.” 

Grandma Ida manages to look both delighted and disappointed at the same time. Steve subtly tries to edge his chair a little further away from her reach. 

“And how’d you two meet?” This time, it’s Sam’s mom joining in. 

Steve chews turkey for longer than necessary and swallows before answering. “Uh. At the VA. He teaches piano lessons there.” He forks another huge bite into his mouth, pleading with Sam with his eyes to help him out. 

“Yeah, he’s a piano teacher,” Sam says. “Talented. Real cute, too. Could use someone being good to him.” 

“Real cute, huh?” Grandma Ida pipes up, and her bony fingers are encircling Steve’s wrist like a manacle. 

“Ye--yeah,” Steve manages, gently extricating himself from the octogenarian’s surprisingly strong grip. “He’s very… cute… and I like spending time with him.” 

Sam gives him a thumbs-up from across the table, and Steve continues, “We’re just taking it slow for now.” 

Grandma Ida pats his hand. “Good for you, honey.” 

***

Sam’s baby cousin Ellie is fascinated by teeth. 

“Sorry,” Gina, Ellie’s mom (and Sam’s favorite cousin) says again, as Ellie’s entire fist finds its way into Steve’s mouth when he leans close to the baby and opens it to say something. “We think she’ll grow up to be a dentist.” 

Ellie is adorable and adorably plump. She sits on Steve’s knee, facing him, and studiously watches his face, looking for opportunities to examine his teeth some more. Steve can’t help but be charmed, and when the whole family gets up from the table to resettle in the living room for pie on paper plates in laps, he holds Ellie on his hip and can’t stop himself from grinning. 

The next moment, Ellie’s fingers are in his mouth again and the quick lightning flash of a camera goes off. 

“Sorry,” Gina says, looking anything but. “But it’s just too cute!” 

Steve grins again good-naturedly (lips closed this time), and bounces Ellie a little bit. She’s warm and solid against his side; a tangible representation of love. His heart pangs a little when he looks into her deep brown eyes-- certainly, back in 1944 or thereabouts, he’d never even considered the possibility of a child with Bucky’s wide grey eyes or his own piercing blue. Even if he’d wanted it, it was science fiction, it was not proper, it was-- A dream he didn’t dare. Steve sighs, and gently tugs Ellie’s hand away from his lips once more. 

Now it’s possible, at least, but he’s hardly in the position, is he? A quasi-single American superhero with a hardly stable job or home life. That it’s possible doesn’t mean it’s something he can have.

“She likes you,” Gina says, smiling and interrupting Steve’s internal dialogue. “Really took to you.” 

Baby Ellie gives him a toothless smile of her own, and Steve can’t help but return it. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he holds Ellie more firmly with one arm and fishes it out of his pocket with his other hand. 

TJ. _You look adorable with babies._

Steve looks up from his phone, finds Sam’s knowing gaze across the room. _You’re welcome_ , he mouths, indicating Steve’s phone, and Steve supposes he can’t really be upset. 

_Thanks. It’s hard not to be charmed by a cutie like Sam’s cousin_ , Steve types back, one handed, as Ellie’s little fingers roam around his face. 

_Hard not to be charmed by you_ , the response comes quickly, then, immediately following: _Sorry. I just like you, that’s all._

Steve’s mouth curls into another smile, and he carries Ellie over to where Sam is standing. “Thanks, man,” he says. “You’re the best.” 


	6. The Potential of You and Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter's song: "I Will Possess Your Heart" by Death Cab for Cutie.
> 
>  
> 
> _How I wish you could see the potential / potential of you and me / it’s like a book, elegantly bound but / in a language that you can’t read just yet_

The holiday recital is just a few short weeks away, meaning that TJ has only one or two regularly scheduled lessons left with his kids before showtime. He’s starting to feel like he lives at the VA center, what with all of the extra lessons he’s agreed to. Some of the kids who need extra practice, and some are just nervous. TJ is more than happy to provide this additional help -- it’s not like there’s much waiting for him at home besides his painfully empty fridge and bed. 

Things with Steve have been going well since Thanksgiving, although actual moves have yet to be made. There’s been some more flirty texting, and Steve’s been getting to the VA around the same time as TJ so that they can have coffee together in the break room before TJ’s first lesson of the day. 

Despite how busy -- and tired-- he is, TJ has been looking forward to his days at the VA more than ever. He’s so proud of the tangible progress he can see in his pupils, and he’s even feeling hopeful about the budding relationship with Steve. For once, he feels content with his place in life, even if it’s far from the life he’d have envisioned for himself, growing up as he did in the White House. 

So when he wakes up one cold Thursday morning feeling like he’s been hit by a truck, his first thoughts are: _Shit, I can’t let the kids down_ , shortly followed by _I can’t miss seeing Steve_. So even though he’s well aware that for his health’s sake, he should turn the alarm off and just go back to sleep, he manages to hit snooze only once and then peel himself out of bed like ripping off a stubborn band aid. 

He dry-swallows Tylenol in front of the bathroom mirror, avoiding his own gaze. The quick glimpses of pallor and lank hair are enough for today. He takes time to wind a thicker scarf around his neck at the door and is only shivering a little by the time he’s waiting for Steve in the break room. 

“Good morning,” Steve says, briefly resting a hand on TJ’s shoulder, and TJ starts a little. He’d been sitting there, resting his chin in his hand while he waited, and he has no idea how much time has gone by. 

TJ musters a smile for Steve, and Steve’s face brightens, almost like he’s got a lightbulb hidden somewhere behind his teeth. Once Steve gets a good look at TJ, though, his expression molds into a furrowed frown. 

“You feeling okay? You look a little peaked.” 

TJ clears his throat and takes a fortifying sip of coffee. “Peaked? Nobody’s called anyone ‘peaked’ since about 1940. And I’m good, just a little tired.” 

Steve doesn’t look like he believes this blatant lie, but TJ simply doesn’t have the energy for more complex fabrications. 

“Have you eaten anything yet? Macaroons, maybe?” Steve’s eyes twinkle. 

“Nah, wasn’t hungry.” TJ shrugs. “Coffee’ll perk me right up.” He smiles again, hoping it doesn’t more resemble a grimace, and takes a long swallow.

“Okay.” Steve reaches across the table and squeezes TJ’s free hand. “If you’re sure.” 

TJ squeezes back. “I’m sure.” 

*** 

Corey’s looking at him instead of at the sheet music. TJ’s head is aching, his throat’s on fire and it’s probably good Corey’s doing Moonlight Sonata for the recital, because the notes on the page are anything but clear.

He blinks and realizes Corey’s tugging on his shirt sleeve. He catches the end of the question, which seems to be a pointed inquiry into his well-being.

“... okay?”

“I’m fine,” TJ promises, hiding a cough behind his hand. 

Corey looks unimpressed, and TJ forces a grin, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “Hey, you don’t have to worry about me, okay?”

“‘kay,” Corey mutters, turning his attention back to the piano and beginning a rendition that proves his claim of having “practiced his fingers off.”

This time, when TJ’s eyes start to close, it’s not so he can focus on the music -- his lids are just too heavy. He feels his body list to the side, and his hand flies out to grab the edge of the piano to steady himself. 

Corey stops playing, and TJ knows he needs to reassure him that all’s well, but he can’t seem to form the words. A wave of dizziness washes over him, and he tries once more to tell Corey that everything is fine, but his hand slips from the piano and he’s losing his balance.

He hears Corey yell, but the heaviness overtakes him and he slumps gracelessly onto the floor.

When he comes to, he’s cradled in Steve’s arms, with Sam and Corey staring down at him. Maybe “fine” was a bit of an overstatement, but he tries it on again for good measure.

“I’m really fine.” 

“Yeah, I can really tell, what with you being on the floor and everything.” 

TJ clears his throat and winces. “I just didn’t eat enough today, that’s all. I’ll just get some-- some macaroons”-- here he tries a smile and doesn’t quite hit the mark-- “or something and I’ll be good to go.” 

Steve puts the back of his hand against TJ’s neck. “Nuh-uh. Nice try, pal, but you’ve got a fever. I’m willing to bet that your throat hurts, too. And you’ve made it this far today on coffee and Tylenol.” 

TJ swallows guiltily and doesn’t say anything. 

“Now you’ve got two choices,” Steve continues. “One, I can take you to urgent care right now”-- he pauses as TJ blanches-- “or two, you can let me take you home and take care of you. But I’ll warn you right now, you’re going to have to listen to everything I say, or it’s straight to the ER with you.” 

“Ugh, okay, okay, fine. Home. Take me home.” 

***

At TJ’s apartment, Steve barely allows TJ to pee by himself before he’s ordering him to bed, pulling the covers up to his chin for him, patting his legs through the blankets. 

“Do you have Tylenol here? I’m going to get you some and then I want you to sleep for a while.” 

“Medicine cabinet.” 

“Thermometer in there, too?” Steve says all of this casually, but TJ can see the concern still etched into his face, the thrumming energy of _Captain America With a Mission_. TJ’s that mission, and it feels a little like having cross-hairs appear on his chest. There is no escape from Steve’s caring.

TJ sighs. “Yeah.” 

The thermometer doesn’t lie, and when Steve reads off “103,” the expression on his face is such that TJ can’t tell if Steve wants to hug him or hobble him to keep him in bed. Given his current illness, he could probably do both in one fell swoop of a muscle-bound arm. 

Steve replaces the thermometer cap, then sets it back down on the nightstand, picking up the Tylenol bottle and moving it from hand to hand.

“When’s the last time you took a dose?” 

TJ considers; everything feels a little blurry around the edges right now. “Hmm… 10?” he guesses. 

Steve opens the bottle without effort (child-proof caps, no match for the Cap) and shakes two tablets out onto his palm. 

“You need water?” 

TJ shakes his head. “Just hand ‘em over.” Steve’s hands are gentle around TJ’s own, cupping them so the pills aren’t dropped. 

TJ swallows with a grimace. “Guess that water’d be good now,” he says, and Steve pats his shoulder. 

“Coming right up. And then you sleep. You’re exhausted.” 

Steve’s voice is kind yet firm; sunshine over steel. TJ’s too tired to argue. He can’t remember the last time someone had taken care of him like this -- at least when his malaise was due to a simple illness and not an overdose of or withdrawal from his most recent vice. He’d shown up at Sean’s once, feverish and nauseated, and instead of holding him, keeping him warm in bed, Sean had been angry. “I don’t have time for you when you’re like this,” he’d said, “I have work to do.” 

*** 

Steve’s sure that he’s going to kill TJ for scaring him like that-- right after he smothers him with affection and nursemaiding. With how listless TJ is right now, it seems like he might even allow it. In any case, Steve is taking the opportunity and running with it. 

“Hey there sunshine,” Steve says as he sets a steaming mug of tea on the nightstand. “Made you some tea.” 

“Thanks,” TJ says, a bit grumpily, and makes no move to pick up the mug. 

“You need to drink it,” Steve says, firmly but not unkindly. “Remember our agreement?” 

TJ sighs, and then shivers a little before taking a sip. “Yeah, I remember.” 

“Good.” Steve sits on the edge of the bed, hip flush to TJ’s blanketed legs, and smooths TJ’s hair back from his forehead. “Hmm, you feel cooler, but still warm enough to make you feel pretty bad.” 

TJ shrugs a shoulder, sipping more tea. 

“I’m impressed, you know,” Steve says conversationally, “that you made it through as many lessons as you did today.” 

“Thanks,” TJ says, and the grumpiness is still evident. 

“Impressed,” Steve repeats, “but not in a good way. I love that you are so dedicated to your students, but you have to take care of yourself. TJ. Listen to me.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Your students want you to be healthy. It’s okay to miss a lesson or two if you’re not feeling well. They’ll understand.” 

TJ stirs under the covers, mumbles something mostly inaudible. 

“What was that?” Steve pats TJ’s leg again and then lets his hand rest on TJ’s thigh. 

“Missed a lot of things when I was using. Didn’t want to let anyone down.” 

“Oh”--( _baby_ , _sweetheart_ , _honey_ , _doll_ ; these are all diminutives that Steve aches to call TJ)-- “ _TJ_. It’s okay. Really. You’re doing so well.” Steve rubs TJ’s leg through the comforter, then fixes him with a sharp look. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me take you to urgent care?” 

TJ suddenly finds his tea immensely intriguing. “... Yeah.” He clears his throat, and the sound is raw, pained. “Figured the media’d have a field day if word got out I collapsed and went to the ER.” 

Steve sighs. Maybe TJ’s better at self-preservation than his current state would lead one to believe. 

“Okay. I get it. I understand. But I still think you need some serious care, and if you get worse, I’ll call in a few favors and get a private doctor to come here.” 

TJ’s silent then, steadily sipping tea until his eyes are drooping and Steve gently takes the mug from him, and stands up. 

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here when you wake up.” This time, Steve can’t help the endearment, just like he can’t help standing there for a few moments, watching the lines on TJ’s face smooth out as he sleeps, making him look so _young_.

He also, at this moment, looks nothing at all like the Winter Soldier.

***

In the kitchen, Steve calls Sam. “Do you have a recipe for chicken noodle soup? Or a recommendation for a grocery delivery service or something?” 

Sam pauses, but Steve can still hear him breathing on the other end (supersoldier hearing, and all). 

“Sam?” 

“Yeah, I’m here, buddy. Just -- did you remember about the Internet?” 

Steve forgot about the Internet. 

“Uh.” 

Sam laughs. “It’s okay, man, I’ll help you out. I’ll email you my mom’s recipe and have the stuff delivered, okay?” 

Steve rattles off TJ’s address for Sam and then stays on the line. 

“He doing okay?” Sam asks keenly, and Steve swallows, thinking about the dark circles under TJ’s eyes, the unhealthy flush to his complexion. 

“Better now that I’m here,” he says adamantly. 

Sam barks another laugh. “I guess I can’t argue with that. But man, you’ve got it bad, don’t you?” 

“Uh.” Steve’s always managed to be eloquent when asked anything about his love life, something that Tony, Nat and Sam love to exploit. Once, he even jumped out of a plane to avoid further discussion of his nonexistent love life with Nat, a fact that she’s never let him live down. 

“Okay, okay. I just sent the email, and your delivery should be there within the hour,” Sam finishes. “Tell TJ I said to feel better.” 

“I will,” Steve promises, glad that Sam can’t see what he’s sure is a hearty blush spotlighting his face. 

Steve spends some time quietly puttering around the kitchen, then, careful not to wake TJ, but when he peeks in to check on him, TJ’s breathing slowly and evenly (if a bit congestedly) and seems dead to the world. Steve sets out a large pot for the soup and a pan for sautéing vegetables. He finds a sharp knife in a drawer and sets that out, too, along with a cutting board. By the time the delivery arrives, he’s read through Sam’s email a half dozen times and feels ready to make the best damn chicken soup TJ has ever had. 

***

TJ rouses blearily when Steve knocks gently on the open bedroom door, bowl of soup in hand, and even though he still looks ill, he’s no longer so pallid that Steve’s heart knocks worriedly against his ribcage like an overeager racehorse, and for that, Steve is glad. 

“Made you some soup,” he says, and TJ blinks and rubs his hand over his face. 

“You didn’t have to,” he says, and his voice is sandpapery, thin and gritty. His hand hovers around his Adam’s apple, and Steve feels a little pang in his chest. 

“Your throat still bad?” he asks, and TJ nods, grimacing. 

“Looking forward to the soup,” he rasps, and gives Steve a smile when Steve hands him the bowl. 

“Looking forward to you eating it,” Steve replies, and doesn’t even feel embarrassed about the flush he can feel in his cheeks when the corner of TJ’s mouth quirks up. 

“Go ahead, honey,” Steve says. “Eat up.” 

***

After the soup, Steve’s still sitting on the edge of TJ’s bed, in that kind of weird, prim way that he has. His shoes are off, he’s wearing a different outfit-- TJ supposes he must’ve run home and grabbed some things-- but he still seems not quite relaxed. There’s an energy about him like an aura, and TJ has a slight suspicion what it might be. 

It’s been a long time since TJ’s been the one to make the first move-- which makes sense, since his last meaningful relationships were with a closeted politician and a college professor. Even though Steve is a literal superhero, though, something tells TJ that he should be the one to initiate contact.

He takes a deep breath. “So,” he says. “Do you wanna get in on this?” 

Steve looks momentarily stupefied. “What?” 

“Dude,” TJ continues, “it’s so obvious that you want to cuddle me right now. It physically pains me to look at how much you want to cuddle me.” He lets a little grumpiness tinge his voice as he gestures with his hand. “Just get over here.” 

Steve gets. 

It’s a little awkward at first, with some moving around and arranging, but eventually, Steve is under the covers with TJ, and TJ is nestled up next to his warmth, head pillowed on Steve’s chest. Steve is carding his fingers through TJ’s hair, and it feels amazing. 

“Captain America?” TJ scoffs quietly. “More like Captain Obvious.” 

***

TJ falls asleep again after not too long, and Steve holds him, overly warm and a little snuffly. He can’t remember the last time he cuddled -- or who it was he cuddled, whether it was Bucky or Peggy. Either way, whoever it was certainly doesn’t remember. 

Steve hugs TJ a little closer to him at that thought, even though he’s starting to get overheated, what with the comforter and TJ’s radiant heat. He’s okay with that, though-- he doesn’t think he’s imagining that TJ’s breathing seems steadier, that he’s relaxed more even in sleep, now that Steve is here next to him. For that, Steve can handle a little bit of extra warmth. 

It’s a much better end to Thursday than Steve had hoped for after seeing TJ prone on the floor. It feels hopeful and right to hold TJ like this, listen to him breathing, watch his chest rise and fall. It feels like a mission he’s succeeding at, making sure TJ’s okay.

It’s on Friday afternoon that things start to go downhill.


	7. Piece by Piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song: "Little Do You Know" by Alex & Sierra.
> 
>  
> 
> _Underneath it all I'm held captive by the hole inside / I've been holding back for the feel that you might change your mind_  
> 

Just after lunch on Friday, Steve gets a phone call that he takes out in the apartment building’s hallway. Not just the hallway in TJ’s apartment, but the one outside his actual apartment. He’s gone for at least twenty minutes, and by the end of those interminable 1,200 seconds, TJ’s starting to panic a little bit. Did someone call and break the news to Steve that he’s been going out with TJ Hammond, Pathetic American Punchline? Just when he’s about to slide out of bed and go do-- _something_ \-- the door snicks open again and Steve strides back into the bedroom, looking harried. 

“Sorry,” he says shortly. “It was--” He stops, a weird look crossing his face. “-- Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” He pauses again, seemingly trying to rearrange his face into something approaching the limit of normality. “You want to watch a movie or something?” 

TJ shrugs, coughs a little. “Whatever. I’ll probably fall asleep anyway.” 

The strange look shadows Steve’s features again, and his mouth twists. “Well, in that case, if you’re going to nap, I have to go out for a little bit. But don’t worry. I’ll bring you back some ice cream, okay?” He tries a smile at the end of this, but it’s nothing close to his usual wattage. 

“Okay,” TJ replies, but something feels off about it. 

Steve pauses in the doorway. “You sure you’re feeling okay enough to stay here by yourself? I could call Sam.” 

TJ answers immediately. “I’ll be fine.” 

“Okay,” Steve says, and he’s out the door. 

There’s still a strange feeling about this whole interaction somewhere in TJ’s chest, but before he can pinpoint exactly what this is, he stays true to his word and falls asleep. 

***

Second, TJ wakes up from his impromptu nap feeling _awful_ \-- even worse than when he woke up yesterday, worse than when he went down and got well-acquainted with the dingy tile floor of his VA piano lesson room. He gropes around on the nightstand for his phone, checks the time. It’s only been an hour and a half since Steve left, and it’s not yet 4 p.m. 

There’s a text from Steve waiting, seventeen minutes old: _Still doing OK?_

And another: _I’ll try and be back by 6. Ice cream. :)_

TJ texts back, laboriously: _I’m good, take your time_

He’s not good. He doesn’t want Steve to take his time. The small part of him that believes that Steve wants this, wants to be spending his weekend taking care of him, wants Steve to be here fussing over him like he’s a child home sick from school. 

He knows he should get up, take some meds, maybe actually tell Steve that he’s not good to be on his own right now. Instead, he turns his phone to silent and pulls the covers back up to his chin. There are other forms of self-preservation that aren’t as concerned with one’s physical health.

***

TJ wakes up to Steve’s big hands on his face. “Cold,” he mutters, and cracks open an eye. He’s shivering, and his pajama shirt feels sweat-damp and clammy. 

“Here,” Steve says, and the big hands are arranging him in a sitting position against some pillows, are poking the thermometer under his tongue, are keeping him steady. 

“You’re burning up,” Steve says, and he sounds incredibly, personally disappointed. “I’m going to give you as much Tylenol as I think is safe and then when you wake up, we’re having some words.” 

TJ barely registers-- he manages to swallow pills, sip some water and let his eyes fall shut again. 

When he wakes up again and sits up, a damp washcloth slides down his face, and Steve’s dragged a kitchen chair into the bedroom. Steve’s sitting on it, in a precise, military way that TJ’s not seen from him before. Sure, he’s seen Steve nervous, uptight (the drum circle springs to mind), but never looking so _cold_. 

“I trusted you to do one thing while I was gone,” Steve says, and his voice, too, is refrigerated. “I asked you if you were doing okay and you said yes.” 

TJ blinks and retrieves the washcloth from his collarbone. Steve reaches out a hand for it and takes it from him. 

“And I get back here, and”-- Steve twists the washcloth in his hands-- “you’re barely functional. Scarcely coherent.” He tosses the twisted washcloth across the room suddenly, and it hits the wall with a slight thump. 

Steve’s voice is low, measured, and so, so angry. For a moment, TJ could swear that there’s a hint of wild panic beneath the carefully cool voice, but then either Steve tamps it down or TJ imagined it. 

“I just don’t even know what to say.” Steve’s giving him that Paul-Newman-going-out-in-flames stare, and TJ wishes he’d just yell, scream-- anything but this icy disappointment.

“Except…” Steve starts, then stops. “Except I should never have trusted you to take care of yourself. You obviously can’t handle it.” 

In spite of himself, TJ feels a prick at the corner of his eye and the moisture starts to well up almost immediately. 

Steve stands up. “I just never thought you could be so _careless_ with your own health.” His hands fisted at his sides, then crossed in front of his chest. Pacing. Then considering, as TJ sniffs and then swallows painfully before raking his hand across his eyes. 

They’re at a stalemate-- neither of them seems willing to be the first to speak again. A soft, but persistent knock at the door saves them from having to see who’ll break first. TJ sniffs one last time as Steve turns and goes to answer the door-- he’s sure it would’ve been him. 

The person Steve brings back to the bedroom with him is instantly familiar, but TJ can’t quite place him, until the man puts out a hand and says, “Bruce Banner, nice to meet you.” 

***

It’s surreal, TJ thinks afterwards: Captain America (who dressed as the Hulk for Halloween) just brought the actual Hulk (who’s a doctor, by the way) over to his apartment. He’s sure Black Widow and Falcon will be on their way soon, too. Or-- actually, he’s not sure they won’t. 

“Some sort of viral throat infection,” the actual Hulk had deemed his illness. “You’re lucky. It’s nasty, but you should be right as rain in a few days. Maybe a few miserable days, but you’ll be okay.” 

Despite avoiding eye contact with him, Steve had pushed in that still slightly chilly voice, even to the Hulk’s diagnosis. 

“His fever,” Steve had said, arms crossed in front of his chest. “It’s pretty high. Hundred and three and a half earlier tonight.” 

The Hulk-- Dr. Banner-- had seemed nonplussed, perhaps used to Steve’s brand of confrontational conversation. 

“Keep giving him Tylenol every few hours, keep an eye on his fever, make sure he stays hydrated. Give him ice cream, get some calories into him.” At this, TJ could swear the Hulk had winked at him. “My favorite’s mint chocolate chip.” 

They’d kept talking, like TJ wasn’t there, just a few feet away. It was evident: he was no longer qualified to be in charge of his own care. 

And when Steve walked Dr. Banner to the door, TJ’d propelled himself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom, intent on a long, hot shower. The front door closed before he’d managed to close the bathroom door, and Steve’s serious face appeared in the doorway.

TJ’d forced the feelings back and offered a small smile, cutting off whatever Steve might have wanted to say. “I’m gonna shower. Think it’ll help me sleep.”

When Steve nodded -- the first sign of anything resembling approval appearing on his face -- TJ’d reached forward to shut the door. 

Now, under the water he’d purposely made too hot, his shoulders are shaking with sobs that he hopes like hell the water’s muffling. He keeps taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself, but then Steve’s angry face flashes back into his mind.

_“I never should have trusted you.”_

_“So careless.”_

They’re familiar themes, after all. If TJ’s mastered one thing in his life, it’s disappointing everyone who knows him. He fucks up. He fails. And the weight of it falls on the shoulders of everyone who’s ever tried to care about him. It’s no wonder no one stays, that even his own family’s had reason to distance themselves. He’s the tarnished piece of the Hammond collection; no polish can shine him up so that he matches the rest of his family.

And now Steve knows it. Steve sees him for what he is: a pretender, trying and failing to be an actual adult, to be a person of substance, to be anything that anyone needs. Sure, he keeps trying, and that might count for something, but he also keeps failing.

He can’t even take care of himself. Can’t even tell the truth about how he feels. He can’t even …

TJ doubles over, gasping for breath. The tears won’t stop, and now he’s coughing hard. He throws a palm against the wall for balance, knocking the shampoo bottle from its ledge in the process. The resulting thud is loud, and there’s a quick, hard knock on the door.

Shit.

“TJ?” Steve raps on the door again. “Are you okay?”

TJ opens his mouth to answer, to reassure Steve that he can at least manage to take a shower without ruining something, but instead of words, another sob tears out of him.

He’s not imagining the panic in Steve’s voice now. “TJ!”

The door flies open, and TJ gives up on any pretense of pulling himself together. In the next second, the shower curtain’s flying back and TJ just crumples on the floor of the shower. The water’s still beating down on him, he’s still doing that awful mix of coughing and crying and now Steve is staring at him. 

The fact that he’s naked hardly seems like the worst of it.

A towel wraps around his shoulders, and then he’s being hauled up and out of the shower. Steve’s talking rapidly -- TJ catches “so sorry” on repeat -- and there are more towels, and Steve hands him a tissue and it’s all just too much.

He can’t seem to stop shaking. And then somehow he’s on the bed, swaddled like a baby in a mass of mismatched towels. His teeth are chattering, and Steve’s crouched in front of him, asking if he’s okay.

Isn’t that a stupid fucking question. He’s TJ Hammond, right? He’s never okay, not really.

He looks at Steve through teary eyes, shakes his head, and somewhere in the swell of sadness and self-loathing swirling in his stomach, the anger breaks through.

“You left.” There’s no inflection, no accusation in his words. He is stating a simple truth, one that Steve appears to have conveniently forgotten.

Steve rocks back onto his heels, his face troubled. His mouth opens, but then he seems to read TJ’s expression and think better of whatever he might have said.

“You left,” TJ says again, his voice hoarse from all the tears he’s shed. “You left, and you didn’t say why, and I didn’t ask. You needed to go, so I made it okay for you to go. You were going to go anyway.” He pauses to swipe at a stubborn tear that is determined to strip him of any remaining dignity and shivers. 

“Everyone does,” he continues. “They go, because I fuck up, and they realize I’m not worth the time they put into me. My family comes back, but everyone else … Sean, Alex …” He can’t keep the bitterness from his laugh. “It wasn’t even because I was a junkie. You knew that about me, right, Steve? I’m a junkie-- well, former junkie.” 

TJ jerks his chin at the nightstand, and Steve follows his gaze to see the small blue chip sitting in a bowl. “Six months clean. Like it matters, though, right? I don’t have to be using to fuck up. It’s a special skill. I ruin everything.” He stretches out his hand impulsively, traces the stiff line of Steve’s jaw. “I don’t wanna ruin you. You had a reason to leave earlier, you should hang onto that. I’m not worth it.”

He hadn’t meant to say half of that, but his mask is in shreds. Now Steve knows. Now Steve will go.

TJ’s exhausted on every level; he’s dripping wet, yet completely wrung out, and Steve’s just staring at him as if he can see all the way through.

When Steve moves away, he’s not even surprised. 

***

However, it turns out that Steve’s just going to retrieve a dry towel, some clean pajama pants and a t-shirt. 

“Do you have a hair dryer?” is all he asks, quietly, as TJ’s carefully wriggling into the pants and pulling the shirt over his head. 

TJ nods back at the bathroom door, still open. “Right drawer. Top.” By now, just talking hurts his throat, and he wants nothing more than to just curl up and sleep, so he can take a break from thinking about what a disappointment he is. 

“Here.” Steve’s hands removing the damp towels from around him on the bed, then neatly folding them and hanging them back on the rack to air-dry. TJ lets his eyes slide shut for a moment-- he’s so tired-- and then feels Steve’s hand gently touch his shoulder. 

“This okay?” Steve’s holding a fluffy towel, and his intent is clear. TJ nods wearily, and then Steve’s carefully toweling TJ’s hair dry, rubbing lightly. It feels good. Steve’s hands on him are comforting, an unexpected kindness, and if he had more energy, TJ’d be spending it to wonder why Steve’s still bothering with him. It doesn’t take much to take his hair from dripping to damply unmanageable, and Steve’s hands rest briefly on TJ’s shoulders before he moves away to pick up the hair dryer.

“That outlet okay?” Steve gestures at the outlet on the wall next to the bed, and TJ nods, and then he’s crouching down to plug in the hair dryer. Under different circumstances, TJ would definitely be admiring the curve of his ass in jeans, but even that is too much right now. The hair dryer hums to life, and warm air blows gently onto TJ’s scalp as Steve’s fingers card slowly through his hair. He shivers violently, overcome with exhaustion and sensation alike, and the movement of Steve’s fingers stops.

“Cold?” Steve asks quietly, shutting off the hair dryer. 

TJ manages a feeble nod. He feels slightly better; at least now he’s not cold and dripping. Steve gives TJ’s shoulder a little squeeze. He blows out a deep breath, and says, “You need to rest, but can I just say something? I’m so sorry, I just want to try to explain.” Even in the dim light of a room lit by light pollution from a bathroom, TJ can see the earnestness practically oozing from Steve’s pores. 

“Okay,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I’ll listen.” 

***

Steve knows that they’re taking this slow, that he’s fucked up in a very major way, but when TJ says that he’ll listen, he wants nothing more than to kiss him. Even though TJ’s already having a hard enough time drawing breath right now, doesn’t need anything to raise his temperature or heart rate. 

“I just--” he starts, and then stops. “I just need to know that you’re okay, when I’m not there. I really care about you, TJ, and I know that I’ve been doing myself no favors here today, but--” he breaks off, and tries not to think about how he’d practically run out the door the second his contact had said _Bucky_ , no matter how illogical it would be for the Winter Soldier to be hiding out in D.C. and to let himself be seen, after all this time. That part of his heart that had adolesced in Brooklyn had wanted to believe, and had jumped right out of his chest and away from the person who needed him. 

TJ does. Bucky doesn’t.

Steve swallows hard, and lets his hand rest on TJ’s knee. TJ’s still blinking up at him and while it’s a look that’s far from blind faith, it’s also not close to scoffing disbelief. 

“Look,” Steve continues, “I know we haven’t known each other for that long, but-- I feel good when I’m around you. You get me to dance, for Christ’s sake. That’s not nothing. And I think--” 

He breaks off then as TJ succumbs to another fit of coughing, and rubs his shoulders for long moments. 

“I think we could have something good here.” 

TJ doesn’t say anything, still trying to control his errant lungs, but his wide grey eyes never leave Steve’s face. 

“I know I’m not good at this yet,” Steve says, and tries to put all of the earnestness that he feels into his voice. “But you make me _want_ this-- and trust me, a relationship’s been the last thing on my mind for a long time now.” 

Steve squeezes TJ’s knee gently, searches his face.He wants to lay all of his cards out-- whether it’s tarot or poker, he wants TJ to see his hand. 

“I’m so sorry, again, TJ. We can talk more in the morning, if you want. But right now, I think you really need some more rest. Will you let me hold you again?” 

Steve can’t help but bite his lip as he asks-- holding TJ yesterday had been one of the best things that has happened to him since he woke up in this century, and he doesn’t want to think that he’ll only get to experience it once. 

“Okay,” TJ says quietly, as another big full-body shiver runs down him. He slowly moves to get under the covers, like even his skin is tender. Steve remembers fevers like this from his sickly childhood, and quickly stands to pull the comforter up so that TJ can crawl in with minimal effort. He drapes the blanket gently over TJ and then takes time to remove his own socks and shirt, and then-- after a moment’s hesitation-- his sweatpants, too. 

“I’m not trying to move too fast,” he reassures TJ, who’s still watching him with those big eyes. “I just know how a fever like that makes you feel, and I want to be there for you without boiling myself.” Without further compunction, he slides in next to TJ and pulls him close. 

TJ starts to say something but it catches in his throat and he coughs instead. Steve soothingly rubs his arm. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving.” 

***

When TJ wakes up in the morning, only two things register: one, he really has to pee, and two, Steve’s gone. He sits up and rubs his eyes, willing his heart to stop racing, when he hears the unmistakable sound of Steve Rogers singing-- quietly, and poorly-- while he cooks. This makes him smile as he’s washing his hands in the bathroom, even though he still feels feverish and achy, bone-tired despite having slept more in the last two days than he has in the last two weeks. 

The spread Steve has prepared is, in a word, impressive. In another, enormous. In two more, delicious looking. So much so that TJ’s stomach musters up a small rumble as he steps into the kitchen while Steve has his back to him, working with a pan on the stove. 

“My Nana’d be proud,” he says as he approaches Steve, and Steve turns around with a big smile on his face. “She’s always trying to get me to eat more.” 

“Well,” Steve says. “Bruce said you need extra calories to get better, and I like to cook.” He laughs at himself then, a quick, bark-like sound. “Like to try, anyway. Take a seat, I’ll serve you.” 

Steve keeps up an easy chatter while he makes TJ some tea, retrieves the Tylenol from the bedroom, and rests his hand on the back of TJ’s neck. 

“Still hot,” he says, and his eyes crinkle a little bit. “And feverish, too, so take your meds.” To TJ’s surprise, Steve presses a quick kiss to the top of his head, and then moves back to the stove. 

TJ’s still processing this when a huge plate of scrambled eggs, hashbrowns, and toast appears in front of him. Seconds later, Steve plunks a mug of tea next to the plate, and hands TJ a fork. 

“Eat,” he says. Moments later, he’s sitting across from TJ with his own heaping plate, and TJ feels actually hungry for the first time in what feels like months. 

***

By the time TJ’s pushing the last few bites around his plate, belly just this side of uncomfortably full, Steve’s finishing his second helping and looking at him like he has something to say. 

“Go ahead,” TJ says, taking another swig of warm tea, which feels incredibly soothing on his throat. “Spit it out.” 

“I want to tell you why I left yesterday,” Steve says, and it has the air of sounding a little bit rehearsed. 

TJ, on this side of the morning, after sleeping with Steve always there whenever he woke up to cough, pulling him in tighter, warm breath tickling the back of TJ’s neck, is a lot more prepared to listen. Steve meant it when he said that he wasn’t trying to go too fast-- it was sexy but not sexual, and TJ feels a lot better about everything after spending the night in this fashion. 

“Go on,” TJ says, and Steve does. 

“I got a call from one of my contacts about a sighting,” he starts, carefully. “Of the Winter Soldier. Of Bucky. Here in D.C.” He runs his hand through his hair. “A potential sighting, I mean. And. I just.” He’s sounding less rehearsed now, but more urgent. “I had to go and see.” He sighs. 

There’s a long pause, and Steve takes a long drink of coffee. 

“Well?” TJ asks finally. “Did you find anything?” 

Steve looks-- Steve looks a little lost in time for a moment. “No,” he says. “There was nothing there, and I should’ve known. Shouldn’t have left you, either-- not to go chasing after shadows from my past.” He takes another swallow of coffee, sets the mug back down on the table a little more forcefully than he probably meant to. 

TJ takes a deep breath, thinking. “So,” he says quietly. “Are you upset because you left, or because you didn’t find anything?” 

Steve immediately reaches across the little table and takes TJ’s hand in both of his. “Because I left,” he says, fervently. “I shouldn’t have left you, and I shouldn’t have gotten angry at you. The whole time I was gone, I wanted to be back here with you, making sure you were okay. And when you were so sick, I just-- panicked.” 

TJ thinks some more. “I get that,” he says eventually. “But.” 

Steve’s still holding his hand, and that makes it a little hard to say what he wants to. “I need to know,” TJ says, looking at his own hand in both of Steve’s, “that you’re not gonna just bail on me the next time someone says ‘Bucky.’ I know you came back--” he pauses when it looks like Steve’s about to jump in-- “and I’m really glad, but I can’t have that in the back of my mind, you know?” He squeezes Steve’s hand. “I’ve been second fiddle too many times before-- with Sean and his politics, Alex and his tenure-- and I don’t want to be worrying about you running off after the guy you were in love with 70 years ago.” 

This is a long speech, especially for TJ’s still-ragged throat. His voice cracks on the last sentence, and he has to take a few long drinks of tea. 

“Also,” he says. “I get that you were worried, but you were a little harsh. And by a little, I mean a lot.” 

Steve flinches slightly, his expression flooding with guilt, and TJ squares his shoulders before continuing. He takes another sip of tea, stalling as he organizes his thoughts. If they’re doing this, he and Steve, he has to be honest about what he needs -- and about how his past has influenced what he needs, especially from a partner.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he adds finally. “You have no idea -- really, no idea -- how good it was to see someone who’s not related to me care that much about whether or not I’m okay. I haven’t had that, uh, ever. But you don’t know me, not yet, not that well, so when you call me careless? You don’t really know how careless I can be. Skipping a meal? Running a little short on sleep?” 

TJ laughs, a quick, harsh sound that pierces the silence hanging between them. “Those are the healthiest coping mechanisms I’ve managed in a really long time. And I get that it looks careless to you, I get that.” He meets Steve’s eyes then, willing his point home. “I’m not climbing out of somebody’s window in the rain. I’m not ODing in a club. I’m not crawling into a running car in a dark garage because I can’t think about getting out of bed tomorrow. And you didn’t know, you don’t know. But next time? Maybe give me a little credit. Because this version of careless is one hell of an upgrade.”

He doesn’t say anything after that, because suddenly he has an armful (or, more than an armful, really, Steve’s not exactly petite) of supersoldier and Steve’s squeezing the breath out of him. TJ doesn’t even care-- this isn’t like choking on your own puke or gasoline fumes or even erotic asphyxiation. It’s just Steve, being present, being here for _him_ , and TJ can’t help but hug him back.

***

By early Sunday afternoon, TJ finally feels like he’s over the hump of illness, like he’s improving rather than maintaining. He’s no longer shivery, and he’s coughing less and less. 

“Think your fever broke,” Steve says, sounding relieved, as he rests his hands on TJ’s face and neck. 

“Yeah,” TJ replies, “You’ll have to get a hot water bottle or something to keep you warm at night now.” He grins, and Steve tousles his hair fondly. 

“Hey, hand me my phone, would you?” TJ dangles his hand off the side of the bed, and Steve retrieves the phone from its charger and hands it to him. 

TJ texts his brother: _Hey bro, not feeling so hot so gonna skip out on dinner. Don’t want to get Annie sick. See you next week._

Dougie is typing back immediately, as is usual-- if TJ hadn’t shared the womb with him, he’d think Doug was born with a cell phone in his hand. 

_What kind of sick? Are you okay? Do you need anything?_

Oh, Dougie. TJ scrubs his hand over his face. This is exactly why he’d still wanted to go to dinner tonight, why he didn’t want to tell his twin the embarrassing story of how he’d fainted in the VA like a princess and an honest-to-god real-life prince (or at least as close as America’s going to get) had carried him home and cared for him in his sickbed. 

_Just a sore throat. I’m mostly over it. And thanks, but I’m good._

TJ sighs audibly as he sets down his phone, and Steve stops scrolling on his own phone and looks up at him. “What?” 

“It’s my brother-- he’s just worried about me because I’m missing dinner.” 

“You’re still not going to that dinner,” Steve says. “Not if you want to go teach lessons tomorrow.” 

TJ sighs again. 

“No long faces, mister.” Steve comes over to the bed, hops up and arranges himself next to TJ, putting his arm around him, giving his shoulders a little squeeze. 

***

They must both fall asleep like that, because the next thing Steve knows, the bedroom is in shadow and someone’s loudly knocking on the apartment door. 

“TJ? TJ? Open up.” 

TJ rouses, blinking sleepily, catlike. “Shit.” 

Steve’s already off the bed and halfway across the room. 

“It’s my brother,” TJ explains, making to slide out from under the covers. Steve stops and turns around, palm facing TJ.

“You. Staying in bed.” 

Steve can hear Doug’s voice again, and TJ looks torn, but ultimately slumps back onto his pillows. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

“And who are you?” Doug demands when Steve opens the door, with indignation only befitting a top political advisor who has neither the time nor inclination to be intimidated. “Where’s my brother?” 

“Dougie,” TJ calls from the bedroom, voice still a little raspy. “It’s okay. Come in.” 

Doug’s carrying a paper grocery bag from Whole Foods. “Brought you some soup,” he says as he skirts around Steve and steps into the bedroom. “Should still be hot.” 

Doug sets the bag on the nightstand and crouches down to place a hand on TJ’s forehead, which gets instantly swatted away.

“Dougie, I’m fine,” TJ assures him, recognizing the defensive posture of Doug’s body, reminiscent of a bristling hedgehog readying for a woodland battle royale. “Steve’s been here taking care of me.”

“Steve, huh?” Doug stands and turns around, arms crossed over his chest as he faces Steve. “Steve … Rogers. Steve Rogers. Is in my brother’s apartment.” 

TJ’s grateful for the gift that is seeing the series of microexpressions that flash over his twin’s face: the expected shock, the understandable awe. He pushes himself up on his elbows, and both Steve and Doug turn to him, snapping in unison, “Stay right there.”

“Oh, God, there’s two of them.”

Doug ignores TJ’s outburst and turns back to Steve, visibly shaking off his surprise. “I know who you are. But that doesn’t explain why you’re here with my brother, when he’s compromised.” _Vulnerable_ goes unsaid, but the implication is clear. 

TJ protests and tries once again to sit up, and Steve steps around Doug to sit on the edge of the bed, putting a gentle hand on TJ’s shoulder. His smile’s warm and a little rueful. 

“I’ve got to say,” Steve says, “I’m glad to see someone else looking out for you.”

***

They all end up in the living room eventually, when TJ’s bedroom starts to seem a little claustrophobic what with a superhero and the vice president’s senior advisor standing over his bed. 

TJ flips on the TV, still tuned to the Food Network, and puts the remote back on the coffee table. He’s sprawled sideways on the couch, and Doug’s claimed the armchair. TJ’s half-dozing already, but he shifts when Steve walks back into the room with a mug of tea, prepared to scoot over and make room. But Steve steps past him to the opposite end of the couch, lifts TJ’s feet carefully and just sits, bringing TJ’s feet to rest in his lap.

It’s so domestic and normal, and it’s so far from anything TJ’s ever known. Steve’s intent on the TV, but TJ catches Doug watching from his spot in the chair. He raises an eyebrow, all he needs to ask for his twin’s opinion, and Doug gives one short, sharp nod. 

_He’ll do,_ it says.

Out loud, Doug says, “So, Steve, you’re coming to dinner next Sunday, right?”


	8. Let Some Light In the Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me you love me but don't say it with words / I wanna feel your body around me (Voxtrot, "Warmest Part of the Winter")

Steve is finally cajoled into returning home to his own apartment late on Sunday afternoon. TJ is really glad that he’s been there all weekend-- cooking, cleaning, literally caretaking-- but now that he feels a lot better, he’s ready for some alone time. 

“I’ll be okay, I  _ promise _ ,” he tells Steve at the door, and Steve folds him into his arms, holds him tight for a long moment before pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“You’ll be the death of me, Hammond,” he says, but his eyes are twinkling, and TJ closes the door with a grin still adorning his face. 

He spends some time puttering around the kitchen, makes himself some tea and drinks it slowly, enjoying how it no longer makes him wince to swallow. After finishing his tea, he places his mug in the sink and then decides to take a long, hot shower to wash off the last lingering traces of illness. 

The water sluices the grime from his skin and the stress from his muscles. He stands in the spray, letting the water beat against his back until his legs start to feel wobbly. It’s a much different shower than his last -- no unfairly handsome man crashes to his rescue, and when he grabs a towel, there’s no one to wrap it around his shoulders. TJ takes his time drying off, brushing his teeth and grabbing clean sweats. As he’s heading to the couch, he grabs his phone off the nightstand and casually thumbs the home button.

When he sees 23 notifications flooding his screen, he blinks for a second before flicking his index finger to scroll.

**Steve Rogers - Missed Call (3)**

**Unread Text Messages (20)**

**Steve Rogers- 5:36pm**

Hey, just seeing how you’re doing.

**Steve Rogers- 5:39pm**

There’s more soup in the fridge.

**Steve Rogers- 5:42pm**

My apartment seems quieter than usual.

**Steve Rogers- 5:42pm**

I turned the heat up before I left.

**Steve Rogers- 5:45pm**

Do you want to get coffee tomorrow before your lessons start?

**Steve Rogers- 5:45pm**

We can just get it in the break room, or I can stop at the Dog Tag.

**Steve Rogers (Missed Call)- 5:47pm**

**Steve Rogers- 5:48pm**

Let me know about the coffee. 

**Steve Rogers- 5:50pm**

Hope you’re doing okay.

**Steve Rogers- 5:51pm**

But really, you should let me know. That you’re doing okay. 

**Steve Rogers- 5:51pm**

Sorry. I just get worried about you. 

**Steve Rogers- 5:53pm**

Which, I am getting kind of worried about you. 

**Steve Rogers- 5:54pm**

I’m sure you’re fine. Not like yesterday.

**Steve Rogers (Missed Call)- 5:55pm**

**Steve Rogers- 5:57pm**

You’re not upset that I left, are you?

**Steve Rogers- 5:58pm**

I could come back. I can.

**Steve Rogers- 5:59pm**

I’m just going to head your way in a few.

**Steve Rogers- 6:00pm**

I could bring some more soup.

**Steve Rogers- 6:02pm**

I’ll just head your way first and then we’ll see about the soup.

**Steve Rogers- 6:03pm**

On my way.

**Steve Rogers (Missed Call)- 6:04pm**

**Steve Rogers- 6:07pm**

Almost there.

**Steve Rogers- 6:07pm**

I’m really concerned that you haven’t answered.

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers- 7:49pm**

Again, I’m really sorry about the door. 

 

*******

 

Two days later, TJ’s opening his brand-new door to Steve, who blushes and holds out a large bag.

“I brought Thai,” he says, shuffling his feet in the doorway. “I’m, uh, really sorry. Again.”

TJ bites his lip to keep from laughing at the guilty expression on Steve’s face. “Well, I mean, if you were trying to show you cared, message received.” He reaches out and grabs Steve’s hand, pulling him into the apartment. 

“You brought yellow chicken curry, right?”

Steve did. TJ’d mentioned it offhandedly once as they’d walked by a restaurant, pointing out that their curry was subpar compared to his favorite place, but since he’d moved across the city, he never makes it back there.

So it’s his favorite dish from his favorite restaurant, because Steve listens when TJ talks. The curry’s mild, so it’s not exotic spices heating TJ’s skin -- it’s the warmth that’s knowing Steve actually seems to give a damn. 

They eat, and they talk, and it’s as comfortable as a favorite sweater on its umpteenth wear, when you start to get the feeling that it fits in a way nothing else has, or will. And then TJ gets an idea.

“How about that lesson?” TJ crosses to the piano and looks back at Steve. It’s been a point of discussion for a couple of weeks now, after Steve had poked his head into the piano room to find TJ’s lesson canceled and shyly offered that he’d always wanted to learn how to play. TJ’d patted the bench then, but Steve shook his head.

“Not here.”

But here, now, seems like the time. This is something TJ can give Steve, something of value he has, something Steve wants. And so he slides onto his piano bench and crooks his finger, smiling at Steve.

“C’mere.”

It takes Steve two long strides to cross the room, and then his side’s pressed into TJ’s. TJ plays a quick, light scale and nudges Steve.

“I usually start the kids out with Mary Had a Little Lamb, but I’ll let you pick.”

“Actually,” Steve starts, and the tentative tone in his voice causes TJ to turn to him, grey eyes searching blue. 

“I mean,” TJ interjects hurriedly, wondering if he’s misread the whole thing. “We don’t have to do this. I’m sure you don’t really--”

“No!” Steve says forcefully, then laughs at himself a little. “No, I mean, I do want to learn. But I was thinking maybe you could play for me first? I’ve heard you, of course. I’ve just never gotten to watch.”

_ Oh. _ So it’s not lack of interest, then. TJ’s shoulders straighten and he wiggles his fingers: this is familiar territory, and he feels confident in his navigation skills -- especially given the destination he’s got in mind, which is the king-sized mattress about six feet behind them. If Steve’s feeling anything close to the spark that TJ is, kindling a flame seems like an easy task.

He’s got a few trusty matches in his repertoire.

“Yeah, of course I’ll play for you. Got any requests?”

Steve shakes his head, and TJ grins. The offer was perfunctory: he knows exactly what he’s going to play. 

“I need a little room,” he tells Steve, who obligingly slides to the edge of the bench before TJ grabs his arm, fingertips curling around Steve’s enormous bicep. TJ tries to bring his brain back online, forces his fingers to move, when they want to stay curled around that muscle like a cat in the sunshine. “Not that much.”

It’s not nerves he’s feeling as he positions his fingers, not really. He could play the song in his sleep, and when it comes to what happens next? It’s all want and no worry. He trusts Steve. 

“It’s, uh, called Meine Freuden,” he says, and then he’s playing. He wonders briefly if Steve knows the translation and considers offering his own title: The Seduction of Steve Rogers.

The music’s light, almost flirtatious when it starts, and TJ’s fingers dance over the keys, effortlessly running through the trills. He can feel the heat of Steve’s gaze on him, but it feels like promise and not pressure. 

He moves into the middle of the song where the intensity of the song ramps up, and it feels like flying, the pace at which his fingers are moving, lifting, striking. There’s only this music and this man beside him, and this song is his chance to say everything he’s feeling. He’s played it hundreds of times, but never with this effortless precision, never quite this well. He hasn’t missed a note, his timing is perfect; it’s as if all the hours he’s spent at the piano led him here, so he could play this piece at this moment.

For Steve.

The frenzied pace calms, and the last few notes are soft, deliberate. It’s done, and he’s still thinking of what to say when Steve inhales sharply and places a warm hand on TJ’s thigh.

There are no smooth lines in TJ’s head now, there’s nothing but the presence of that hand on his leg. His world’s narrowed to this piano bench, and he sucks in a ragged breath. He’s got to say something, he has to do something.

He manages to breathe out Steve’s name in a voice he doesn’t recognize as his own, and then Steve makes a guttural noise and kisses him. TJ’s instantly glad for the grip Steve has on his leg, because his desperate lunge forward sends them both off-balance, but Steve’s hand keeps him in place while they start this new dance to a thrumming bass line that’s only in TJ’s head. 

Maybe he’s never really kissed anyone before. This isn’t kissing the way he knows it -- sure, there’s the steady tug of  _ wantwantwant _, sharpening with every second. It’s sunshine-warm skin fused to his where Steve’s hand is laid against his neck, steady and grounding. It’s the butterscotch taste of Steve’s mouth, delicious and comforting. It’s the snick of denim on denim as their legs slide together on the bench, the beginning of unbearable friction. It’s sensory overload, and it’s almost unbearably good, good in the way you tell yourself you should ration, good in the habit-forming way. Good in a way he’s never had, not really, not the way it’s supposed to be. Good in a way he thinks Steve can give him. 

TJ moans helplessly into Steve’s mouth and kisses back, twining his arms around Steve’s neck and pressing himself closer. Closer isn’t close enough, it’s not possible to get close enough. But now the path is clear, and so when they break apart, breathless, TJ drops his hands to Steve’s waist, letting his fingers sneak under Steve’s shirt to trail over rigid abdominals until he’s got a finger hooked into the waist of Steve’s jeans.

Steve’s pupils are blown, and though he’s breathing heavily, TJ can see all the effort he’s putting into staying still. As if TJ might spook and run. As if.

“Thanks for letting me play for you,” TJ says quietly, keeping his hand where it is, toying idly with the button of Steve’s jeans. Steve opens his mouth but doesn’t speak, and TJ goes on.

“I’d like to do something else for you.” As he says it, TJ’s flicking open the button, watching Steve carefully. Maybe he’s the one who’ll get spooked here. Maybe he’ll run. But the look on Steve’s face seems to mirror what TJ’s feeling, and it looks like  _ wantwantwant _, mingled with a little awe, and carefully TJ brings his other hand up so that he can undo Steve’s zipper. 

“TJ,” Steve says, and it’s not a warning, it’s a plea, and then Steve’s raising his hips to help TJ shimmy his pants off. The new access is an invitation, and TJ slides off the bench and onto his knees to accept it. He looks up at Steve, taking him in from this new angle, and God, but he’s a beautiful man, all golden muscle, just sitting here, waiting for TJ to take him apart. TJ’s maybe never wanted anything more than to do just that.

Steve’s thighs flex as TJ’s hands travel up his legs, pausing at the edge of his navy briefs. TJ squeezes gently, bends down to breathe warm air onto Steve’s inner thigh. Steve twitches violently, and TJ hears the piano bench creak where Steve’s gripping it.

“Hey,” TJ says quietly, raising his head to look at Steve. “If I do something you don’t like--” Steve breaths out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “I’m serious, though, okay? You have to tell me.”

The levity leaves Steve’s face then, and he nods once, reaching down to tangle TJ’s fingers in his. “Okay. Yes. But-- I like you touching me.”

TJ’s overwhelmed with fondness that’s just as strong as the lust he’s feeling, and he presses a quick kiss to the back of Steve’s hand before dropping his head to nuzzle Steve’s erection through his navy briefs. Steve gasps, and TJ groans; the room seems suddenly charged with electricity and the pure force of the want snaking through TJ’s veins. Touching Steve’s not going to be a problem; it’s all he wants to do, to make Steve as crazy as he feels, to unwind him, inch by inch. 

He wants that, and he wants it now, but this is also a moment he wants to savor, here with Steve. TJ watches with wonder as his fingers creep toward the waistband of Steve’s briefs; they’re trembling.  _ Wantwantwant.  _ He skirts around Steve’s straining cock with teasing almost-touches, ghosting his fingers over the tented fabric. Steve’s hips are jutting forward in silent supplication, and TJ presses a quick, feather-light kiss to Steve’s inner thigh, blowing a puff of cool air where his lips were.

“TJ.” It’s all Steve says, and the second of silence seems minutes long as TJ waits, needing Steve to check in, wanting to be more than sure he’s ready to take this step. Steve’s voice is low and needy. It makes TJ want to give him anything he might ask for, so when Steve’s next words are “ _Please_ ” and “Touch me,” well. 

TJ touches him, slipping deft fingers under the top of Steve’s briefs and tugging gently, pulling the fabric down and over to reveal Steve’s flushed cock, leaking want onto Steve’s stomach. TJ’s been with his share of attractive men, but Steve’s beautiful on another level, inside and out, like his handsomeness is a physical reflection of his character.

He looks as good as he actually is. Being close to him like this is overwhelming, but in a way TJ wants. He wants Steve to swamp his senses, take him over, wreck him in a way that doesn’t hurt. And so he leans forward, threads his fingers through Steve’s and closes his lips around the tip of Steve’s cock.

This time, his name is a ragged gasp on Steve’s lips, but TJ’s relentless in the pursuit of Steve’s pleasure, which seems woven into his own. Every tremor in Steve’s powerful thighs, every broken-off noise he can’t stifle, TJ is giving to him and taking back for himself with a fierce sense of accomplishment. All his teasing tricks and techniques seem too well practiced to have a place here; this feels new in every way. When he swirls his tongue around Steve’s tip, it’s because he wants to taste. When he relaxes his throat to take Steve even deeper, it’s because he wants to be that much closer.

And when Steve stammers out his name and his fingers curl into TJ’s hair, it’s a warning that TJ’s got no intention of heeding. This is where he wants to be. This is what he wants to happen. This is something good, and it’s his, and he’s sharing it with Steve.

Steve tips then, loses his battle for composure and strings together a litany of praise and profanity as TJ swallows down his release. TJ squeezes his hand and sits back, feeling as sated as if he’d been the receiver here. But it’s always been especially good for him to give, and the look on Steve’s face is doing nothing to quell the fierce sense of contentment he’s feeling. 

Steve’s boneless now, slumped against the piano, relaxed in a way that TJ hasn’t seen him before. His hair is slightly rumpled, and he gifts TJ with a grin that somehow manages to be both wholesome and debauched. 

TJ kisses Steve’s thigh, the inner space of his knee, uses his right hand to gently skim his fingers up Steve’s other thigh. Then Steve hauls him up to kiss him hard, pulling him up so that they’re sitting side by side on the bench. Steve’s flushed and rumpled, golden; TJ’s a little askew but by far the more presentable of the pair. The telling thing, TJ thinks, is how happy they both look. He can feel the smile on his face, knows it matches Steve’s.

Steve pulls TJ to him once he’s settled, burying his face in TJ’s neck. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve says against TJ’s hair. “And so  _ good _ .” TJ can feel the smile on Steve’s face, can still taste Steve on his lips. 

“I can--” Steve starts, lips moving against TJ’s skin, sending a delicious shiver traveling down his spine.

Reciprocate. Give back. Make it even. TJ knows what Steve’s saying, what he’s offering. And he’s not crazy, of course he wants everything Steve wants to give him. But he wants it to unfold so carefully, like origami in reverse, nothing done just because. And for this night, in this moment, he really is content, and he brings his hand up to gently press against Steve’s lips, stopping the next words.

“I got everything I wanted tonight,” he whispers. “As long as you stay.”

He feels Steve nod and relaxes even further.

“I’m going to want all of you soon,” Steve murmurs, so quietly that TJ almost doesn’t catch it. 

“Hmm?” TJ keeps his voice low and steady even as his pulse races in response to those soft words. He wants to hear Steve say it again. He needs to.

“I’m going to want all of you,” Steve repeats, more clearly. “Soon.” He draws back from TJ a bit, surveys his face carefully, a cartographer mapping a new constellation. 

TJ bites his lip, hesitates, and then leans forward to brush Steve’s ear with his lips, lets himself say what he really wants: “It’s yours.”  _ I am _ , he means.


	9. Beautiful and True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song: Matthew Sweet's "Sick of Myself"
> 
> _You don't know how you move me / deconstruct me and consume me_

Hammond family dinners have never been a light affair. TJ’s not really surprised that he’s not looking forward to this one; he’s nervous about the recital, about Steve, about-- well, everything. 

It’s also not a surprise that he’s finding himself hiding all of this from the majority of them-- he spent half his adolescence hiding from his parents in the Lincoln bedroom, so he’s really just preserving tradition. 

He doesn’t want his parents to know that he’s having the recital, that he’s dating Captain America, that he had the flu the other week and had swooned like a Disney princess. Doesn’t want to field questions like he’s at a press summit about his personal life. 

“TJ?” 

He comes back to himself at the sound of his mother’s voice-- her words all edges, clipped tone and sharp consonants. 

“I said, how long have you been using again, TJ?” 

“Huh?” TJ looks up from fidgeting his hands in his lap, and makes incredulous eye contact with Doug, who seems ready to open his mouth, except that their mother continues. 

“You’re restless and distracted, you’ve barely touched your food…” Elaine trails off, shrugging. “It’s hardly a mystery.” 

Now TJ’s the one ready to open his mouth hotly in his own defense, but Doug beats him to it. 

“Oh my god, Mom,” Doug says. “TJ’s not high. He’s just dating Captain America.” 

If TJ had known that the secret to silence at a Hammond dinner table was to announce one’s relationship with an American icon of muscle and red, white and blue, he’d have hooked up with the first guy in a Superman suit he could find at the DC Pride Parade. 

“What’s this about Captain America?” It’s Bud who finally responds. Nana is sipping sherry with a _supremely_ self-satisfied smirk on her face. 

“Seems like our little Thomas Jefferson has been declaring independence,” Nana says, not even looking up from her glass. 

“Mother, _please_ ,” Elaine says, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Don’t be inappropriate.” 

“Why not? We’re all adults here. And I think it’s excellent that TJ has finally found a worthy lover.” 

TJ can feel his cheeks flush as red as the stripes on the American flag. He glances desperately at Doug and Anne. 

“We met him,” Doug manages, wincing a little as Anne elbows him hard in the side, “Really nice guy.” 

“Oh, and those _biceps_!” Nana purrs. 

“Oh, so you’ve met him, too, Mother? Am I the only one left out of this little life event?” 

“Elaine, don’t be so sensitive. I haven’t met him; just looked at pictures on the internet. In high-def.” Nana looks pleased with herself again. “Good job, kiddo.” She raises her glass to TJ and drains the remainder of her drink in one swallow. 

TJ tries and fails not to picture his grandmother ogling pictures of Steve on Google Images. He takes a deep drink of water to try and clear his head a little. 

“So how long’ve you been seeing this fella for?” This time, it’s his father who speaks up. 

TJ shrugs. “A few weeks?” He steeples his fingers together and looks down at them. “It’s still new.” 

He breathes out heavily, tries not to think about how nice last week’s dinner was-- just him, Steve, Anne, and his brother. Anne’s cranky black cat had taken an immediate liking to Steve and had wound all of her limbs and tail around his ankles all throughout dinner, and Steve had placed his large, square hand over TJ’s from time to time, and squeezed gently. 

That part had been nice. After Steve had left to go meet with Sam, Doug had closed the door and turned to TJ, looking almost sympathetic. “Okay, so that went well. But I’ve got to know -- how’d the conversation go when he told you that you look exactly like his dead best friend?”

TJ’s expression had clearly clued Doug in to the fact that conversation had yet to take place, and he dropped the subject. TJ had waited until later for the requisite Google search and subsequent freakout.

“Steve’s a great guy,” Anne chimes in now, and then turns to Elaine. “So… when’s dessert? Hammond, Jr. in here is ready.” She pats the parabola of her stomach.

Elaine rises from the table, letting everyone know that she’ll go check on dessert in the kitchen, and TJ slides his phone out of his pocket and texts Anne. 

_Thanks for that. I owe you._

Anne’s lips quirk up in a little smirk when she looks down at what little lap she has, and TJ’s phone buzzes a moment later. 

_Don’t you know it._

TJ smiles a bit to himself, and replaces his phone in his pocket momentarily before taking it back out. His father’s now engaged in a discussion with Nana about how innocent his recent tabloid appearance with a former Miss Universe contestant was. 

He opens up a new text to Steve and types, _You made a good impression on Anne and Doug. (And the cat.) Good job. :)_

By the time Elaine has reappeared with the dessert and a harried-looking cook, Steve has texted him back a brilliantly smiling selfie, and TJ feels more at ease here at this table than he has in years. 

His good mood buoys him through the rest of the evening, especially when his mother corners him on his way back from the restroom and tugs him into her office. 

“Look, TJ. I…” She runs a hand through her short-cropped hair, sighs. “I made an assumption; I didn’t think… and that’s not something I should be doing in my current position. Or at all.” The last part of her sentence is firm, like the rap of a gavel on a wooden bench. 

“I’m sorry.” TJ’s a little startled-- this tone, this woman: it’s not Senator Barrish or Vice-President Barrish or First Lady Barrish or even the current Justice Barrish. This is just Elaine, his mother, apologizing. And it feels really good. 

TJ opens up his phone to look at Steve’s selfie again as he’s waiting for Anne and Doug to be done with their goodbyes so they can all leave at once, and it feels like there’s a warm candle flame inside his chest, a feeling so unlike the icy rush of a drug high that he can’t imagine why he’d have ever wanted the latter. 

When his mother hugs him goodbye, she whispers, “I’m glad you’re happy, honey” in his ear, and TJ thinks of Steve’s photo again and can’t stop himself from smiling his own brilliant smile. 

***

And then it’s recital night, and TJ’s nerves are like champagne bubbles, fizzing throughout his body and leaving him a little giddy. It’s not his night, it’s not about him, but he’s so eager for all his students to shine. He’s still got half an hour before the recital’s supposed to start, and he’s in the tiny VA bathroom, checking his tie and his teeth. Steve’s on his way; he’d offered to pick TJ up, but this is TJ’s thing. Not only does he want -- need -- to do it on his own, walking through the doors with Steve is a statement that they haven’t discussed making.

They’re together. It’s just not a matter of public record, nor is TJ eager for it to be. Press is messy and mean, and TJ’s had more than his share of it. Tonight is about the kids, and the parents they’re playing for, and okay, a little of it is his pride in the part he played.

He takes a deep breath, practices a smile in the mirror and flings the door open. Steve’s leaning against the opposite wall, waiting with a smile that’s only for TJ.

Steve looks nice, too-- and TJ inhales again, more sharply. 

“Hey,” he says, putting his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. 

“Hey yourself,” Steve says, not moving from his languid position. He eyes TJ up and down, letting his gaze linger. “C’mere and let me kiss you before this shindig starts, okay?” 

TJ’s very, very okay with this, and he allows himself to relax a little bit into Steve’s embrace after a cautious glance down the hallway to be sure they’re alone.

He slips his arms around Steve’s neck and breathes him in. “Tell me it’s going to be good.” 

Steve brushes his lips across TJ’s cheek and draws him a little closer. “They’re all going to be amazing. And you gave that to them. Tonight’s going to be perfect.”

_Perfect_ , TJ thinks. He wouldn’t quite aim that high -- good seems like enough to hope for. No sense tempting fate.

The beginning of the recital’s a bit of a blur-- TJ onstage in front of the microphone, saying a few words about his students and how hard they’ve worked over the past few months and thanking the audience. All TJ can remember is finding Steve’s face amongst the others and seeing Steve mouth what looks like “Go get ‘em.” Although this is a piano recital, not a battle with superhumans or aliens, TJ appreciates the sentiment. 

Before retaking his seat at the side of the curtain-- close enough to speak quietly to his students if needed-- TJ announces the first song and its performer, the inimitable Henry. Tonight, Henry is bedecked in a red bowtie and a huge smile, and he trips out onstage cutely, and TJ smiles at him fondly. Henry may not be the most natural pupil he’s ever had, but he’s enthusiastic and sweet, and TJ doesn’t ask for much more. 

His performance of The Entertainer is lively and sets an upbeat tone for those to follow. Anna trips out next, followed by Dee and Elissa and Jesse, and they all do their part: smiling and playing and bowing sweetly, and it’s all so smooth that TJ can hardly believe it. Then it’s Corey’s turn, and he marches out stiffly, unsmiling in his sweater vest and shiny loafers.

He launches into Moonlight Sonata, and TJ winces a little -- it’s too loud, too fast, too forceful, like the week they’d cut Corey’s lesson short. He draws in a breath, and then the stern set of Corey’s shoulders relaxes a little. The music softens, the tempo settles and TJ can relax and just listen. 

Teachers shouldn’t have favorites. And yet Corey’s his -- for his potential as much as for his problems. When Corey strikes the last note with a proud flourish, TJ’s breath rushes back into his lungs and he claps so loudly Corey looks over his shoulder with wide eyes. In the audience, he sees that Steve’s sitting with Corey’s grandma, who’s got an empty seat next to her, the seat TJ knows was intended for Corey’s dad.

“He’s finally gonna hear me play!” Corey had enthused at the run-through last night. “He says he’s really excited.”

Apparently not excited enough to show up. TJ claps a little harder, and when he sees Corey searching the audience, he rushes onstage.

He wraps an arm around Corey’s shoulders and whispers a quick word of praise before stepping to the mic to congratulate all his students and remind the attendees about the reception. He herds Corey behind the curtain. 

“You’ve never played better,” he says honestly, noting Corey’s dejected expression. “I’m sorry your dad wasn’t here to see it.”

Corey looks up at him then, huge brown eyes brimming with tears that he’s furiously blinking back. “He promised. He said he wasn’t gonna be sick tonight.”

There are so many things TJ could say, but none of them are right. He’s fumbling furiously for the least-wrong option, and then Corey’s eyes go wider at something behind him. TJ turns quickly, hoping--

It’s Steve, but it’s not the Steve that TJ shares coffee and kisses with. It’s Captain America in a button-down and khakis, Captain America giving Corey a smile TJ’s never seen before and earning a shaky, disbelieving grin in return. And it’s definitely Cap himself who kneels to get on Corey’s level and congratulates him earnestly on his performance before shyly pulling a carefully folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handing it over.

“It’s for me?” Corey’s smile matches Steve’s in its shyness as he unfolds it. He looks down and chokes out a tiny gasp. “It … it _is_ me. Playing. You made this … for me?”

Steve manages a nod before Corey flies into his arms, and TJ reaches out to snag the drawing before it’s crushed in the midst of all the emotion flooding the tiny backstage area.

It is, indeed, Corey as he appeared onstage just a few minutes ago, sketched in pen on a sheet of paper TJ knows came from the small notebook Steve always carries with him. The likeness is remarkable, from the sweater vest to the stern face to the way Corey’s fingers pause before the most difficult section.

TJ thinks he might be in love. 


	10. Break and Melt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Please don’t let this turn into something it’s not / I can only give you everything I’ve got_
> 
> This week's song: "Make This Go On Forever" -- Snow Patrol
> 
> Also, the goal remains to continue posting every Friday, but as of now, we are officially out of prewritten chapters, so if a Friday passes without an update: blame life, and know that there's no way we're not finishing this story. Thanks for all the lovely feedback so far!

After the curtain closes and the recital wraps up, Corey tugs Steve and TJ over to his grandma. He carefully presents her with Steve’s drawing, and she blinks hard in rapid succession before pulling Steve into a tight hug. 

TJ watches fondly, and then pulls Corey over for a hug of his own. “I’m proud of you,” he says, and the look on Corey’s face is better than any high he can remember. 

He and Steve stay and chat with Corey and his grandma for a few minutes until TJ feels a firm tap on his shoulder. 

“Good concert, sonny.” 

It’s Nana, in sequins and bright lipstick and a knowing smile when her gaze shifts to Steve. 

“Nana!” TJ says. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

He didn’t know because he’d firmly told the Hammond-Barrish contingent they were persona non grata this time around. He wanted to do this on his own, minus any of the additional spotlight -- and resulting nerves -- his famous family would bring with them. That Nana had been the one to defy him wasn’t a surprise; that she’d managed to keep her presence a secret until now was. Margaret Barrish has an arsenal full of weapons, but TJ’s never seen her successfully manage stealth before. More than that, he’s never seen her bother to try.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Now introduce me to your fella. The kids are cute, but I needed to see this--” she gestures in the direction of Steve’s khaki-covered rear-- “in person. I’m TJ’s grandma. Margaret. But you can call me anything, any time.” 

“Oh my God,” TJ groans, casting a quick look around to see who might have heard “your fella.” 

Steve’s face is more than a little red, but he extends a hand and introduces himself, which Nana takes, but only to tug him forward into a hug far too friendly for a new acquaintance.

“The bar!” TJ says desperately. “Nana. There are drinks. Over there.” He waves a hand toward the far corner of the room, and Nana winks at him.

“Good idea. I’m sure Steve will escort me over there.”

It’s decidedly not what TJ had in mind, but he sighs and shrugs as Steve tucks Nana’s hand into his elbow and begins to lead her through the crowd.

He chats with a few parents to pass the time, and when Steve comes back, he’s blessedly Nana-free, holding a club soda that he offers to TJ.

TJ takes it gratefully and sips, scanning the room for his grandmother. Luckily, she’s now chatting up Sam, and TJ snorts as he watches Sam try to edge away from Nana’s sequined bosom. 

“You want to go rescue him?” Steve nods in Sam’s direction and takes a sip from his own drink. 

“Nah,” TJ says. “He can handle it for a while. Give her five minutes and then if she hasn’t moved on I’ll step in.” He takes another swallow and then reaches over to squeeze Steve’s hand. 

“Thanks for being here tonight.” 

Steve looks at him, then, and TJ knows that he’s not seeing Bucky or wishing it was 1945 again. He’s just seeing TJ, and just TJ is enough.

***

TJ’s night progresses in a blur of conversation -- Sam, Nana, students and parents, and Steve. He does his share of mingling, trying to keep the lingering looks to a minimum, trying to portray a casual air he’s no longer capable of feeling when Steve’s in the same room. It feels like a reasonable portrayal of friendship, though TJ’s a little worried when Nana sets her fourth vodka tonic on the table and slides into the empty chair next to him.

“You’ve got it bad,” she says knowingly, patting his cheek. “I don’t blame you. That is one fine--”

“Upstanding citizen,” TJ finishes, raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “Jesus, Nana. The first lesson we learn in this family is discretion, or did you forget?”

Nana takes a long drink and shrugs. “It’s 2014. I think the world can handle a gay superhero, sonny.”

Before TJ can sputter out a rebuttal or even clap his hand over her mouth, she’s gone, winding back through the crowd. He drops his head into one hand, feeling his breathing pick up. He and Steve haven’t actually had a conversation about what to do if they get found out, and the thought that it could happen so carelessly, because of his own family … no. Not like this.

He wraps his free hand around the glass in front of him, grounding himself in the cool press of the glass against his skin and trying to push down his panic. The night’s gone so well -- better than he’d dared to hope -- and one thoughtless comment that no one seems to have overheard shouldn’t be enough to ruin it. TJ rolls his shoulders, trying to relax, to bring his brain back out of the danger zone.

He hears a body plop into the chair Nana vacated and glances over, his smile automatic when he sees Steve. Steve’s not looking back at him, though, and he’s not smiling; he’s focused on the table. On TJ’s hand. On the drink.

It’s as if the room around them has suddenly dropped away, and all TJ sees is the disapproving set of Steve’s mouth, drawn into a tight line. TJ shakes his head, trying to refocus Steve’s attention. He ignores the impulse to shove the glass away from him; there’s no evidence to get rid of. There’s no crime.

He’s not guilty.

“Nana left her drink.” He says it calmly, working hard to keep the strain from his voice. 

Steve does glance up then, and TJ lets out a breath when their eyes meet. This is Steve about to accuse TJ of not taking care of himself, Steve who thinks his concern trumps TJ’s autonomy. Steve, who doesn’t trust TJ to touch a glass with alcohol in it.

Steve, who doesn’t trust TJ.

He’s tempted to drain the drink -- that he can have one when he wants isn’t the point, though. The point is that for his myriad flaws (every one of which he’s intimately familiar with), he’s still an adult. His life, his choice, his right to sit at this table with a hand wrapped around a vodka tonic without needing to explain himself.

“Something you want to say?” he asks Steve, drumming his fingers on the rim of the glass and watching how quickly Steve’s gaze focuses there. 

Steve hesitates, maybe realizing that he’s navigating a minefield. Maybe realizing his shield is at home. “Are you-- is that a good idea?” He nods at the drink, as if it was in any way unclear.

The surge of emotion that rushes through TJ is unexpected. He was prepared to be defensive and disappointed. He wasn’t prepared for the fury -- is this, now, his life? Forever under suspicion, assumed to be teetering on the edge of disaster. He wants to flip the table, splinter the glass against the wall and let out a primal scream. He wants to shake Steve by the shoulders and ask if this is really all he thinks, all he expects. He wants to cry hot tears of rage and storm out of the room, to make a scene so big that everyone sees.

Instead, he sighs, and the rage drains like a thoughtlessly popped balloon. 

“Is what.” He’s suddenly exhausted. He’s exceeded his own expectations, but to the person rapidly becoming the most important in his world, he’s once again missed some invisible mark.

“How am I fucking up this time? I thought I was just sitting here, soaking up one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, realizing that I actually managed to do something right and good. I did this--” he waves his hand at the room-- “and it turned out okay. Better than okay. I’m proud of this. I’m proud of _me_.”

He aims a hard glance at Steve, wishing he could muster enough energy to be angry again, to let rage instead of resignation carry him through. “But you see me with my hand on a glass, and all you see is the junkie. The pathetic American punchline. It’s not me, not now. I thought you saw me more clearly.”

He pushes his chair back from the table, focusing on the squeak of the legs dragging across the linoleum. TJ stands instead of collapsing, smiles instead of weeping and draws himself up with every bit of pride left in him.

“I asked you to give me a little credit. And maybe that’s asking too much.” He shrugs, gaze fixed on a spot just beyond Steve’s ear. “But I asked for what I needed. So maybe you should do some thinking about whether you can give that to me.

“I’m going home now. I want to remember everything that was good about tonight. Maybe we take some time, think about whether we can be what each other really needs.”

He still can’t look at Steve, can’t open the door for further discussion right now. He feels too raw, too exposed, and this is far too public a place to continue to expose the tender underbelly of everything he feels.

“I’m going now,” he says again, and his voice only shakes a little.

***

TJ steps into the night and tugs his coat around his shoulders before turning in the opposite direction of his apartment. The night’s cold, and it’s still early enough that the sidewalks are lively, buzzing with an energy that TJ can’t hope to match.

He knows Steve isn’t going to come after him tonight. TJ’s rung a bell, and they’ve got to retreat to their separate corners now, for some undetermined amount of time, and figure out a plan for the next round.

And there’ll be a next round. As wrung out as he feels right now, that much he’s sure of. This doesn’t feel over; he’s got some fight left in him. Over, after all, is a familiar feeling -- it’s Sean, telling him nothing between them was real, spitting out those three words TJ sees on the back of his eyelids on the bad nights.

Over drove him into a garage.

And over is Alex, who seemed nothing like Sean for four glorious months of locked office doors and sly references slipped into his lectures, telling him how lovely he is in the same breath as declaring him unfit. TJ hadn’t seen that one coming, either. At least Sean hadn’t ended it in bed, with TJ still curled up on his chest, the sweat not yet dry on his skin.

"TJ,” he’d said softly, tangling his fingers in TJ’s hair. “You're a lovely man. I enjoy you.”

TJ remembered the feeling of utter contentment at those words. It didn’t need to be love if it was lovely. It didn’t need to be everything if they were both enjoying what it was. Except Alex had gone on, still stroking TJ’s hair. 

“There are — expectations for faculty partners. Expectations you can't meet, and I wouldn’t dream of asking you to try. As I said: you’re lovely, just as you are. But I think this has run its course, don’t you?"

He’d even seemed surprised when TJ rolled out of his arms. To Alex, they were having a rational discussion. Ticking off points. Alex was relaying facts without expecting feelings in return.

Over drove him to score when he was supposed to have moved on.

He’s not feeling that itch tonight, and it’s another triumph he can’t properly celebrate. He gives into what he does feel, and he walks.

TJ walks until his feet hurt and his cheeks are numb from cold. He’s miles from home, and he’s no longer thinking about what’s over. His mind is back on Steve. 

Steve, who cares in ways TJ’s never thought someone would care, at least not about him. 

Steve, who’s maybe never known someone with a history like TJ’s. Maybe he needs a little space. A little grace. 

Steve, who let TJ walk when he needed to.

TJ stops on the sidewalk and blows out a breath. He tugs his phone out of his pocket and taps the home button. 

No notifications. And yet he knows -- he can see it in his mind as clearly as if it was happening in front of him -- that Steve’s fighting the urge to text, or call, or run down city streets until they’re standing in front of each other. TJ asked for time. So far, Steve’s giving him that, and for tonight, that’s maybe as much as he can ask. 

He flicks a finger numb with cold across his phone’s screen and opens the Uber app, glancing up to see where he is, only to realize he’s standing half a block from the entrance to Meridian Hill.

Where he got Steve to dance. Where he felt the first stirrings of hope that maybe, just maybe, this thing between _was_ something. And it is, TJ’s sure it is. Just hours ago, he’d thought it was love, and even now, he’s not convinced he was wrong.

TJ stares at the park, his eyes fixed on the path he and Steve walked together as it winds and fades into the inky dark. He stares for a long moment, and then he turns in the other direction.


	11. Hold Onto Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's song: "Unsteady" by X Ambassadors
> 
> _I know you're trying / To fight when you feel like flying_

TJ has never been a guy to back down from something he wants. Climb out of windows and walk D.C. streets in bare feet when that something stops wanting him? Sure. But hide away, playing moody piano for hours on end, being only as communicative as needed to keep his family at bay? Not like him. He wears his heart on his sleeve, usually, and his pain, too. 

He eats like a particularly picky bird and drinks too much coffee for two days, taking full advantage of the fact that he’s got no piano lessons scheduled this week. The plan had been to give the kids a break after the recital. TJ hadn’t realized he’d need one, too. His phone’s still quiet, and for the most part, that still feels okay.

If Steve called, he’d answer. If he knocked, TJ’d let him in. That he’s done neither isn’t sending the usual tendrils of worry slithering through TJ’s body. It’s just a pause, not a full stop, and he knows the difference.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel a full-body rush of anticipation when his phone finally does ring on Tuesday morning -- and it doesn’t prevent the tiniest slump of his shoulders when he sees his brother’s name on the screen.

He’d let last night’s call go to voicemail in favor of another run-through of Rachmaninoff’s No. 2; this time, he has to swipe to accept.

“Hey, Dougie.” He pushes a little enthusiasm into his voice, running a hand over the cool keys of the piano before he glances at the clock. His brother’s always been the early riser between them, but 4 a.m.? Jesus. 

“I shouldn’t be awake right now,” TJ says, omitting the fact that he actually hasn’t slept yet. There was a catnap yesterday afternoon, but the fact that he’d fallen asleep at the piano isn’t one he plans to mention.

“No, you should.” There’s a strange brightness in Doug’s voice, despite the early hour. “Teej, you should definitely be awake. You didn’t listen to my message, did you?”

Busted. “Shit, no, sorry--”

Doug plows right through his apology, and TJ can almost see him pacing in those quick, tight circles he makes when he’s excited. “You should be awake. And you should come to the hospital. Come meet your niece, uncle TJ.”

“Oh my God, Dougie. How’s Anne? How’s the baby?”

“They’re good. Perfect. They’re perfect. Hurry up and get here -- I’m giving you an hour before I call Mom and Dad.”

There’s a dial tone in his ear, and TJ realizes he doesn’t even know his niece’s name. A glance down is enough to send him heading for a quick shower before he dashes off to the hospital; Doug may be distracted, but there are certain signs TJ knows his brother won’t ignore. The dark circles that look like they’re tattooed into his skin; the obviously slept-in (or at least unchanged) clothing. He’ll have to do a little better. 

He’s confident that he’s presenting a reasonably put-together facade when he knocks softly on the hospital room door and Anne tells him to come in. Doug was right; she _is_ perfect. She being Abigail Elaine Hammond -- TJ raises one eyebrow at the name, and Doug shrugs at him, not bothering to look away from his daughter’s face.

“It’s tradition.”

“It’s classic,” Anne chimes in quietly. She looks exhausted, slumped against her pillow, her skin even paler than normal. Yet she’s more lovely than TJ’s ever seen her, radiating satisfaction and love as she watches her husband hold their daughter.

“Also,” Anne says-- still quiet, but with a little smirk this time-- “it’s not quite as presidential as _Hillary_.” 

“Hey,” Doug protests, gently rocking side to side with the baby. “It was only a suggestion.” 

“And one you should never let him live down,” TJ adds, moving to sit in the uncomfortable hospital chair near Anne’s bed. He’d swear that he let his eyes shut for just a minute, but when he opens them again, the sun is just starting to peek over the D.C. skyline. 

“You seem tired,” Doug says. 

“I am tired; I just gave birth.” 

“Not you-- him.” 

“Huh?” TJ works a crink out of his neck. “Jesus, these chairs are terrible.” 

“Don’t avoid the topic. Are you doing okay? Because you seem a little-- a little out of it. And before you get all defensive, don’t worry. I’m not Mom, and I’m not using a family dinner to accuse you of falling off the wagon. This is just your brother saying that you look tired. Okay?” 

TJ lets out a long sigh, scrubs his hand over his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I mean, yeah-- I am kind of tired.” He pauses. “Steve and I had a fight. He saw me holding Nana’s drink at the recital reception and jumped to conclusions.” 

Doug takes a moment to contemplate and press a little kiss to Abigail’s tiny forehead. This time allows TJ to gather a few more of his thoughts, to express them without waiting for Doug or Anne-- who still looks exhausted, but intently interested in the conversation-- to chime in. 

“We didn’t break up or anything. I just needed a little space, you know?” 

Anne yawns. “I get it. Space.” She shares a smile with Doug. “Might be in short supply around here for a while.”

Guilt rushes over TJ. This is the biggest moment of his brother’s life, and here he is, unable to squash his own self long enough to let Doug enjoy it properly. 

He glances at his brother, apology ready to tumble off his lips, but Doug shakes his head. _Don’t worry about it_ , the glance says, and out loud, Doug asks, “Want to hold her?”

He does, and Abigail is the slightest, sweetest weight he’s ever held in his arms. TJ marvels at her, sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware of any wrongs in the world. He rocks her very, very gently and looks up only when he hears the shutter of Doug’s camera.

“Uncle TJ,” Doug says softly, and they grin at each other.

The door opens then, and Elaine peeks her head in. Her eyes focus on Abigail immediately, and TJ sighs.

Doug chuckles as Elaine takes two steps forward and smoothly slides Abigail out of TJ’s arms. “Hey, I gave you a head start.”

“Which we will address later,” Elaine coos at Abigail. “Your father will be here soon; he’s bringing Nana.”

“And that’s my cue.” TJ steps over to the bed to brush a kiss on Anne’s cheek. “She’s pretty amazing, Annie. Let’s just hope she looks like you instead of Dougie.”

TJ hugs his brother hard and accepts a cheek kiss from his mother before he slips into the hallway, heading for the cafeteria to get some coffee. The world seems both a little brighter and a little lighter now, and his fingers brush over the phone in his jacket pocket.

He wants to share it with Steve.

\---

Steve’s surprised when his phone buzzes and it’s a picture message from TJ. It’s a picture of Doug with a small pink bundle in his arms. 

_Meet Abigail Elaine Hammond_ , the text reads. 

Before he can think about it too much, Steve texts back. _Congrats, Uncle TJ. I’m really happy for you._

TJ doesn’t reply, but that’s all right. This doesn’t feel like a new start, but it’s something. And Steve can work with that. 

\---

It was maybe a little obvious, walking by Sam’s open door and then turning immediately around to walk by once more. TJ knows it’s edging toward ridiculous when he passes by for the third time within 30 seconds and hears Sam’s snort of laughter.

“Man, you might be as bad as he is. Get in here.”

TJ slinks into the office, watching Sam’s sharp gaze assess him. He guesses Sam knows the story, but he’s not there to talk about Steve, and he says as much.

Sam nods, and TJ catches the glint of approval. He wouldn’t go to Sam any more than Steve would confide in Doug. But TJ’s not looking for an intermediary, at any rate -- he doesn’t want to wait or wonder. It’s time to see if there’s a middle ground to be found. The past few days have been enough for TJ to reach some conclusions; his hope is that the same is true for Steve.

“Is he--” It’s telling, probably, that _okay_ is the first word that comes to mind. It’s what he wants to know most of all -- how Steve is. Again, that’s not Sam’s question to answer, and so TJ finishes the phrase differently.

“-- here?”

Sam shakes his head, and it seems for a moment that’s all the answer he plans to give. TJ nods and turns to go, to find another way. He can check the bakery, and the park, and maybe the--

“Gym.”

TJ rests a hand on the door frame, a little of the tension draining from his shoulders. He looks over his shoulder. Sam’s smile is kind.

“He’s at the gym,” Sam repeats. “And I know he’s gonna be glad to see you. Say what you got to say. Just-- go easy, okay?”

TJ’s answering nod is automatic. Being hard on Steve never was, never will be the point. But being honest was, is and will be. He thanks Sam and heads down the quiet hallway, his steps and his heart both a little lighter than last time he walked this way.

Steve’s gym is maybe six blocks away. Walking slowly -- not literally dragging his feet, but as close as he can respectably come to it -- TJ uses the time to plan out the points he wants to make.

One. He doesn’t want this to be over. Steve makes him feel in a way that brings him to his knees and makes him want to stay there. Steve cares and shows it (though the execution of that care needs some careful, thoughtful polishing). Steve is the kind of good TJ wants in his life. Actually, Steve’s the specific good that TJ wants in his life.

Two. He doesn’t think it _is_ over. Obviously that part’s not entirely up to TJ, though: Steve gets a say. Steve gets to say whatever he might’ve said when TJ walked out of the reception and anything he’s thought of since then. And TJ will hear him out: how he feels, what he thinks. All of it.

Three. If Steve does still want this -- want him -- they’re going to have a real talk. About addiction, about the role it plays in TJ’s life … and also the role it doesn’t. TJ had thought some things went without saying, but not saying them led him here, to radio silence and pained reflection. Time for some more truth, which is the crux of what he both wants to give to and get from Steve.

Four. He also has to come clean, pun not intended, about Sean and Alex. It’s only fair for Steve to know what’s come before, since TJ still bears those emotional scars. “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,” TJ mutters to himself, shoving his hands a little deeper into his pockets. Remembering is actually his strong suit, but so far, repetition’s a close second. Time for something new. 

Five. Progress, namely how much of it he’s made. Steve doesn’t know the whole of where he’s been, how low those lows truly were, just the gritty bullet points. For all his faults, he’s no bicycle with a flat tire -- there’s no fix needed, no need to stand at the ready with a repair kit. It’s not what he wants from Steve. It’s also not something he can tolerate from Steve. 

He’s standing outside the gym before he’s come up with a sixth. It’s no glossy, modern see-and-be-seen place, that much is evident even from the outside. The sign is small and half-covered in graffiti; the door looks as if it might be rusted shut. 

It’s not. It opens easily, almost eagerly, when he turns the doorknob. As he steps into the foyer -- if one oversized square of carpet counts as a foyer -- he thinks calling it a gym might even be a stretch. The walls are some industrial shade of muted teal, with thick pillars fragmenting the room every several feet. There’s a boxing ring in the center of the room, and beyond that, a punching bag, swaying furiously with the force of the punches it’s absorbing. 

Beyond that, there’s Steve, a blur of motion in a T-shirt TJ can tell from this distance is soaked through with sweat. His hands are taped, his head’s down and either he’s too focused on the bag to have noticed TJ or … 

TJ cuts that thought off. He came here to talk, and he’s come this far. The worst Steve can do is ask him to go. He clears his throat, more to ready himself than to announce his presence, but apparently the sound carries. The bag keeps swinging, but the punches stop immediately. 

Steve pivots, and all TJ can read in his expression in shock. They stare at each other from across the room.

TJ lifts a shoulder, tries for a smile. 

“Hey.”


	12. It's High Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song is "This Year's Love" by David Gray.
> 
> _‘Cause it takes something more this time / Than sweet sweet lies_

Steve’s first instinct when he sees TJ across the room is to step forward and pull him into his arms, the sense of relief is that strong. He’s been waiting, and thinking, and thinking about how long he should be waiting. The mental gymnastics are exhausting, and all he seems capable of at this point are flops instead of flips, but he still wants to do this right, fix this for good. He just keeps letting TJ down, casually stepping all over his confidence and competence with clumsy words and misdirected concern.

He’s thought about nothing else since TJ walked out of the reception and left him frozen at a table, as surely as if he was still encased in ice. Steve couldn’t move, couldn’t speak; he could only sit, stunned at his own spectacular misstep and the awful look on TJ’s face.

\--

He’d wanted to call the words back as soon as they’d slipped off his tongue. The ability to rewind, delete and restart the moment would have been an infinitely welcome one, but not even Tony’s technology had found a way to bestow undeserved grace. Instead, he was left staring at TJ’s empty chair, twisting a linen napkin between his hands before guiltily realizing he was shredding the fabric.

Someone had slid into the chair beside him, and he knew it wasn’t going to be TJ, but hope ignored reason and crept onto his face and into his heart. Maybe he could fix it here and now. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go to bed with TJ’s hurt -- hurt he’d caused -- burned across the back of his eyelids.

He looked up and saw Sam. Maybe not.

Steve tried to mask first his disappointment and then his misery. Sam raised an eyebrow, a look Steve recognized as his “you cannot be serious” expression. 

“If you really think I don’t see you moping, I’m insulted,” Sam said. “I know your tells, and man, I might not know what happened yet, but I don’t think that napkin deserves to be tortured.”

Steve bit back a self-deprecating comment about the rightful target and shrugged, looking back at his lap. 

“TJ get dragged off by that force of nature he calls Nana?”

“He left.”

“Uh-huh. And what are you going to do about it?” 

Steve had sighed then, twisting his napkin again. “That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.” 

\--

And now TJ’s standing here, hands shoved in his pockets, shifting his weight as they stare at each other. TJ breaks the silence first.

“I thought maybe--” he trails off with a sigh, looking hesitant. “Maybe we could talk. I mean, if you need more time, then that’s…”

“No.” It comes out more forcefully than Steve really intended, but more time, more space, more distance -- he doesn’t want any of that. TJ is here and willing, it seems, to hear him, and the only thing Steve wants is to stretch out this moment. There’s a gulf yet to bridge, but he’s sharing the same space as TJ. Their days apart have felt like weeks, and having lost so much time already …

“No,” Steve says again, taking a step forward. “Yes. I mean, no, I don’t want more time. I’d like to talk. If that’s what you-- if you’re ready.”

He gets a quick nod in response. 

“You want to maybe get some coffee, sit and chat? My treat.” Steve reaches a hand out to still the punching bag. “Just let me get cleaned up a little.” He nods his head at the locker room, where he can take a shower, wash off his frustrated sweat and calm his jittery hands. 

His nerves won’t settle so easily.

TJ’s still standing there when Steve emerges from the locker room with damp hair and a grin he can’t suppress when he sees TJ. 

“Hey,” Steve says. “You ready to go?” 

TJ smiles back at him. It’s not quite as bright as the smiles Steve was starting to see from him before the concert, but it’s sure and quick, and Steve can work with that. When TJ’s gloved hand brushes against his more times than could be coincidence on their walk to the coffeeshop-- sure, Steve can work with that, too. 

\--

Steve insists on paying for the coffees, and on buying TJ a chocolate-chip muffin, which TJ picks apart and eats piece by piece. It’s the first time he’s felt hungry in a few days, and he’s surprised to look down and find the plate clean. Steve notices as well, and stands up, placing a hand on TJ’s shoulder. 

“You want something else?” 

TJ’s about to shake his head, but reconsiders. “Sure. Whatever looks good.” Steve’s hand squeezes, and then Steve darts back in line. He’s back in record time with a slice of turtle cheesecake and a fork. 

“This didn’t just look good,” Steve says. “It looked _great_.” 

TJ twirls the fork. “So,” he says. “I’m fed, we’re watered. If you don’t mind that I’m still eating, I want to tell you a few things.” He’s proud that his hands don’t even shake when he says it. 

Steve’s resting his forearms on the table, leaning forward, an open invitation to hearing what TJ has to say. 

TJ takes a deep breath. “I want to start by telling you about my addiction, because I want you to understand just how far I’ve come. I don’t want you to just know the TMZ headlines or Fox News sound bites. I want to tell you what really happened, even if maybe those headlines were sometimes prettier.” 

He takes another breath, but Steve doesn’t interrupt him, just motions for him to continue. And he does. 

TJ tells Steve about the suicide attempt. The highs -- no pun intended -- and lows of his addiction, and about how it’s still something he’s working on every day. He tells him about growing up in the White House, the public eye on him like that of Sauron. He finishes the slice of cheesecake, and tells Steve about Sean, and Alex. About his fears that he simply wasn’t lovable; that he’d never be enough for someone. 

Through it all, Steve listens. He’s attentive, he’s an active listener, but he doesn’t interrupt. And for that -- among other reasons -- TJ loves him. 

When TJ’s finally out of words and syllables, Steve takes a deep breath.

“My turn,” he says, dragging the words out slowly, like he’s still trying to find the ones that will come next.

“I’m sorry, TJ. I was sorry then, right in the moment -- but it was too late. I still said it. I still hurt you.” 

He looks up, and the deep sadness in his eyes almost prompts TJ to reach across the table, take his hand and comfort him. He reminds himself, not for the first time, that he’s not in the wrong here. The line he drew was his to draw, and this is Steve, declaring his position. Whether he can be what TJ needs. Whether TJ’s what he wants. Whether they’re going to stay on opposite sides of this line and walk away from each other.

TJ slides his hands into his lap and waits.

“I care about you so much,” Steve continues, his voice quiet as he stares at his plate. “You know that. The problem is that I keep doing it in ways you don’t need. I care, and so I want to protect you. Which means anything that could hurt you, even if it’s a half-empty glass … that seems like an enemy, and all I know about enemies is how to fight them. 

“It’s not an excuse,” he adds. “I know-- I _know_ what I did wrong. I just assumed you couldn’t handle it.”

He wraps both hands around his coffee cup and looks up at TJ. “I think more of you than that. I keep doing the wrong thing, but, TJ -- even if you can’t forgive me, even if you want this to stop. I think you’re amazing. Everything about you. The recital …” he trails off, pain washing over his face.

“I ruined that for you. I can’t make that up to you, but I’m sorry. And whatever you want, now … I mean, are we … still?”

Now TJ can’t keep his hand from covering Steve’s. He squeezes, hard enough that Steve flinches, and says, “Hey. What do _you_ want?”

Steve blinks at him, and TJ squeezes his hand again. “That matters too, you know. I’ve got enough baggage for an around-the-world tour. You sure this is the ride for you?”

There’s no hesitation when Steve’s other hand comes up to envelop TJ’s. “Yes. TJ-- yes. I want this. You.”

TJ blows out a breath and grins. “So I’ve never run a marathon, but it feels like that’s what we just did here. Do you want to go back to my place?” 

He’s said the same words so many times before, but this time, the phrase feels new in his mouth, like this is the first time it’s really mattered. 

\--

The emotions, the feelings -- the strain is gone, replaced by a rippling wave of sexual tension.

As soon as they’re through his door, TJ’s in Steve’s arms, seeking out his mouth, seeking out any outlet for the want crackling between them like a live wire. TJ kicks off his shoes and walks backward down the hallway to the bedroom, never taking his eyes from Steve, who’s standing by the front door, fists clenched at his sides.

Like he’s a bull, trying to stop himself from charging. 

“You coming?” he manages to get out before Steve is on him, backing him into the room until his legs bump against the mattress.

It’s not like TJ’s never done this before-- he’s far from being a virgin-- but this time still feels new in some way, new and different. 

It’s different than the blowjob, too -- for that, TJ had felt satisfied with simply the knowledge and taste of getting Steve off. But this time, he wants more. He wants to feel satiated; he wants to come first-- he wants fucking makeup sex. 

It seems like Steve’s more than willing, if the way he’s eyeing TJ right now is anything to go by. 

“Lay down, babe. I want to look at you.” 

This isn’t the first time for endearments, either, or the first time Steve’s seen him without a shirt on, but _still_. TJ pulls his shirt over his head slowly, then undoes his belt buckle and leaves it hanging. He takes his time laying back on the pillows, arranging himself with more confidence than he feels. 

Through it all, Steve tracks his movements, eyes a bright and burning sky blue. 

“You gonna come help me out?” TJ asks finally, and Steve almost jumps out of his skin getting on the bed. His hands are shaking when they skim along TJ’s sides and stomach, ghost across his full lower lip. 

“Are you… _nervous_?” TJ’s a bit surprised -- taken aback, even -- by this turn of events. Captain America is nervous about having sex with TJ Hammond, tragic gay side plot in the story of a woman’s unsuccessful run at the presidency? 

“Uh.” Steve’s hands stop skimming. “Yes? I mean, I haven’t been with a guy since… what, 1945?” He looks a little sheepish, and that’s exactly the catalyst TJ needs to lean forward and tug him into an aggressive kiss. 

Steve’s a good kisser -- TJ’s determined that much already -- and he’s equally good with his hands. He soon has TJ divested of his belt and jeans, and has been working on TJ through his boxer briefs until TJ’s almost bucking his hips off of the bed with how badly he _wants_. 

TJ hasn’t let himself want like this in a long time-- since Sean, really. He’d had plenty of sex with Alex, sure, but it’d been more academic and less primal; all by-the-book but without any extra footnotes. 

Being with Steve is all footnotes, all the extra. It’s the whipped cream on top of the cake, when the cake was already four tiers of delicious decadence. Steve pays attention to every bit of TJ’s skin, mouthing his neck in a way that makes TJ break out into gooseflesh, singeing the hairs on the inside of TJ’s ear with his hot breath. 

“Steve…” TJ pants. “Want you. _Need_ you.” 

Steve chuckles low in his throat, and TJ can feel the vibration against his neck. 

“Not yet,” Steve whispers. “Right now I’m still getting you ready.” Still fully clothed, he grinds a little against TJ. Steve’s rock-hard. For TJ. 

This time TJ can’t stop from bucking his hips a bit, biting back a moan. 

Steve’s fingers work their way into the waistband of TJ’s briefs, and TJ almost swallows his own tongue when they brush against his hard-as-a-diamond dick. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Steve says, looking down at TJ as if he himself isn’t haloed in TJ’s bedroom light, all muscle and gold. Steve tugs the briefs down and then makes quick work of his own clothing until he’s naked, too. 

“Steve…” TJ says again, and he’s never felt so _wanton_ in his whole life, not even the first time another dude sucked his cock or the first time someone shouted his name while they came. 

“Getting there, honey,” Steve tells him. “You’re so good, TJ. So good for me.” 

TJ feels himself flushing at the praise, a heat he can feel travel through his entire body, as if his bellybutton, his knees and even his toes are conscious of Steve’s scrutiny and obvious approval. Steve makes him feel _good_ , feel beautiful in ways and places he’s never considered. 

“Lay back,” Steve instructs, and gives TJ a light push so that he sprawls back onto his pillows. “Relax,” Steve continues, mouthing TJ’s neck, “And let me take care of you.” 

Steve’s mouth is like a flurry of flaming moths, landing swiftly on TJ’s neck and chest and fluttering down his belly towards his cock. It’s hot and wet when it finally surrounds TJ’s dick, one of Steve’s hands planted firmly on the bed, the other on TJ’s hipbone. 

TJ shudders when Steve takes his full length in, clutching at his blankets. “Steve,” he gasps, and he can feel Steve smiling around his cock, even though Steve never loses the rhythm. 

As a gay man, on the subject of blowjobs, TJ’s gotten almost as many as he’s given, and he’s given a _lot_. Steve-- unsurprisingly-- is a master. He doesn’t get lazy or complacent; he changes it up often and leaves TJ panting and begging for more. 

And TJ does beg, Steve’s name spilling from his lips as he fists both hands in the sheets to keep from pulling Steve’s hair. He’s roaring toward the edge, and it’s good, it’s so good. Then the golden heat surrounding him dissipates as Steve raises his head, full lips glistening.

“All of you,” he says, and TJ trembles at the warm, wicked tone of his voice. “I want all of you.”

TJ nods and somehow musters the ability to speak. “So have me.”

Then they’re kissing again, bodies pressed tightly together. TJ gives in and tangles his hands in Steve’s hair, tugging him even closer, still not close enough. He sighs into Steve’s mouth, and they break apart briefly. Steve rests his forehead against TJ’s and kisses him again. 

Steve looks shy for a moment, and TJ guesses the question he’s pondering.

“Nightstand,” he says quietly, and Steve looks grateful, extending an arm to reach for the drawer. Steve seems momentarily frozen once he’s holding the small bottle of lube, and TJ remembers: it’s been a while for him. Years in real time. Decades, depending on how you count. TJ’s important. Steve’s choosing him. And that means something. Everything, maybe.

“I can--” he offers, extending a hand toward the bottle, and Steve shakes his head decisively, snapping out of his stupor. 

“No,” he says firmly, and then smiles in a way that lights the whole room. “No, I want to. I want to do this for you.”

“God, yes,” TJ says, feeling his body flush as the quiet, unmistakable _snick_ signals that Steve’s flipped open the bottle. He’s transfixed for a moment, watching Steve coat his fingers. The action is so familiar, and yet once again, with Steve, he has the thought that everything is somehow new, somehow more.

The feeling only grows stronger as Steve carefully works him open, all the while telling him how beautiful he is. How wanted he is. How he makes Steve feel. How good Steve’s going to make him feel. 

And TJ feels all those things, in ways he never has. Beautiful. Wanted. _Good._

Steve bites his lip when he asks if TJ minds being on his back, so they can see each other.

“I just want to look at you,” he says, and TJ stretches up to kiss him again, and then again. Steve could ask for anything in this moment, and TJ would give it gladly. 

“However you want me.” 

He sees everything Steve feels shining in those ocean-blue eyes as one slow, steady thrust joins them. 

Steve thrusts in slowly -- and god, it feels _so good_ \-- keeping his eyes on TJ’s. “I love looking at you, baby,” he says, and TJ goes warm all over. 

“Want you to touch yourself,” Steve instructs next, supporting himself on one arm so that he can take TJ’s hand and guide it to his cock. 

“Good job, you’re so good,” Steve murmurs as TJ’s hand starts to slide up and down, Steve continuing to thrust. “Now just keep going.” 

TJ’s other hand snakes up and he cups Steve’s chin in his hand, and Steve turns his head to kiss TJ’s palm. 

TJ’s getting close to the edge again, and in this moment he’d jump into the abyss if Steve asked him to. Bucky fell; TJ’s jumping. 

“Close,” he manages, and Steve smiles. “Me too, honey. Me too. Can you come when I tell you?” 

TJ’s past words now, so he just nods. Steve thrusts faster, and faster still, and TJ’s making small helpless noises of pleasure. 

“Okay,” Steve tells him. “Come for me, baby. TJ. Come for me.” 

And TJ does, his whole body shaking in its desire to obey Steve’s command, striping his submission across his stomach. It’s inexorable, like he’s a wave and Steve is the shore and they’re just supposed to come together in this way, cresting and receding and leaving TJ breathless. Steve pants out a breath and trembles as he comes, TJ’s name on his lips as soft as water rushing over sand. Breathing heavily, he settles against TJ for a second before he pushes himself up, but TJ snakes his arms around Steve’s shoulders, tugging him back down, relishing the weight of him.

“Stay,” he says. He’s formed that syllable hundreds of times, made this request of other lovers. No one has ever settled back against him so eagerly, held him so tightly, loved him so well.

They haven’t voiced it yet, but it’s floating in the air between them, a connection far beyond the physical.

This is love.

Later, there’s cuddling, and Steve can’t remember feeling so content since he woke up in the 21st century. He’s lost in thought when TJ speaks up. 

“What were they like?” TJ asks quietly, curled into Steve’s side in bed. “Bucky, I mean. And Peggy.” 

Steve stops carding his fingers through TJ’s hair, blows out a long breath. “You don’t ask easy questions.” 

(He thinks but doesn’t say: _Bucky was torrid: as a lover, as an opponent. A storm. Peggy: precise, twinkling eyes belying propriety, soft curves. A constellation._ ) 

He kisses TJ’s hair. 

“They were nothing like you.” 


	13. And If You Want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrated yesterday!
> 
> This chapter's song is "Overjoyed" by Matchbox Twenty.
> 
> _Hearing your voice I'm overjoyed / I'm sorry but I have no choice / You're only getting better_

TJ spends the next week wondering if this is all some elaborate, lucid dream, whether he’s simply tangled in his sheets, imagining Steve is with him.

But every time he wakes up, Steve is with him. He’s a solid line of heat against TJ’s back, a completely unrepentant blanket thief and the best thing TJ’s ever woken up to.

Until the morning where his hand finds a cool, empty spot beside him on the bed, which stirs him into unwilling consciousness. He blinks bleary eyes open, and sure enough, the space beside him is all super-soft navy Egyptian cotton and no soft-hearted supersoldier. TJ lifts his head so that his face isn’t mashed into the pillow and starts to push himself up.

There’s probably a note. Steve’s redefined attentiveness since they reconnected, even holding off his morning run until TJ’s already awake, meaning he’s waiting at least an hour. TJ’s assured him multiple times that it’s fine, he should just go, and without fail, Steve’s chin juts out a little stubbornly when he answers.

“I’m going to be here,” he says. “I want you to know it.”

So maybe this morning he’s finally caved, given in to the call of the pavement. He’ll be back. TJ trusts that -- trusts him -- now, and so he’s not worried when he props himself up to search for the note.

There’s no note.

What he finds is the apparently-not-missing Steve, perched on the edge of the overstuffed chair in the corner. TJ smiles sleepily.

“There you are.”

He blinks again, taking in the full picture. He’d think Steve had just rolled out of bed but for the coolness of the sheets, since he’s still bare-chested and clad in the skintight black Calvin Klein boxers that TJ finds particularly devastating.

And there’s a sketchbook on his lap. It’s closed, with a pencil resting atop it. Steve’s watching TJ carefully, in the way that suggests TJ is a timid fawn who might go bounding into the woods if Steve tramples a leaf a little too eagerly. 

“I--” Steve breaks off, still with that strangely shy look. “Can I--” he stops and opens up the book on his lap, flipping it open to a blank page. “Can I draw you, TJ?” His pencil is quivering in his hand slightly, and TJ feels a little more awake. 

“Of course,” TJ says, voice a little rough from sleep. He yawns and then stretches. “How would you like me?” 

Steve’s mouth quirks up in a smirk as he lifts an eyebrow at TJ. “You little minx. You know I like you every way.” 

TJ knows -- oh, he _knows_ \-- but it’s still something to hear Steve say it so casually, as if being TJ’s boyfriend is some sort of magical gift. 

“Okay,” TJ says, trying to sound casual himself, as if he’s been an artist’s model before-- and whether or not Steve’s wearing his Captain America costume, he’s an artist. Always has been. Even when he’s all suited up, he’s surveying the battle with an artist’s keen eye.

And now TJ is his sleep-tousled subject, complete with unruly bedhead and morning breath. Not exactly the stuff muses are made of. But maybe it’s the same for Steve when he picks up a pencil as it is when TJ sits at his baby grand these days: everything else falls away. The dreamy sonatas, the smooth jazz solos … they’re for Steve, like TJ’s feelings are flowing through his fingers.

When he thinks of all the hours Steve’s spent listening to him pour out his passion at the piano, the tiny bit of hesitance melts fully away. TJ can do this for Steve; he wants to, even. There is no hardship in staying in bed and letting Steve look his fill, let Steve commit his image -- as he is right now, in the bed they sleep in -- to paper and not just memory; to capture an ephemeral moment before it’s gone.

Steve wants to keep this memory. Steve wants to keep _him_.

That realization tilts TJ’s lips into a smile that crinkles his eyes at the corners, and Steve shakes his head, offering a fond smile of his own.

“Keep looking at me like that,” he says seriously, “and I’m going to rethink this plan.”

TJ flops onto his back, his grin widening, and crooks a finger at Steve. “You could at least kiss me good morning.”

TJ barely registers the sketchbook falling out of Steve’s hands before he’s falling back into the mattress under the welcome weight of Steve’s big body. Despite their position, the press of Steve’s lips to his is soft and sweet and not at all what TJ has in mind. His hands slide down Steve’s back, tracing muscles before they brush the cotton of Steve’s boxers.

Undaunted, TJ slides both hands under the waistband, cupping Steve’s ass and pulling him closer, turning the kiss deep and dirty, gleefully diving into the bottomless abyss of want that seems to crack the very earth open when he touches Steve. Steve’s gasp is swallowed by a groan, and then he’s responding eagerly for a few long moments before jerking up.

“You’re distracting me,” Steve accuses. 

“Is it working?” 

Steve chuckles, then presses his lips back to TJ’s as if he can’t help himself. “You know it is,” he breathes, right against TJ’s neck. 

TJ scoots up on the bed a little, and he kisses Steve deeply again until Steve slides backward, breathing heavily, although TJ manages to grab his hand before he retreats to the chair.

The way Steve looks at him, the way Steve _is_ with him -- TJ can only liken it to skydiving, free-falling without fear, all exhilarating bliss buffeted by the confidence of a safe landing. He can cartwheel through the sky and know, down to the marrow of his bones, that Steve will catch him.

Nana’s weird phrase “my heart was in my throat” flashes through his mind, and then TJ’s heart is traveling up, spilling out, unable to be contained another second.

“I love you,” he says, squeezing Steve’s hand and laughing a little at the wild rush of joy it is to say those words to someone without his stomach twisting with dread. “So make sure you get that part right, okay? Draw me like I love you. Because I do.”

Steve stares silently for half a second and then TJ’s back in his arms, Steve pressing his face into TJ’s neck. TJ can feel him shaking and just holds on. 

“Couldn’t help it,” TJ says into Steve’s hair. “I’m yours.”

Steve lifts his head then, pulling back to let TJ see the bright blue of eyes that have never looked at him in quite this way. “You’ve got that backwards, I think. Because I’m yours.”

TJ bites his lip hard and blinks back tears. “Shit. Next you’re going to tell me we belong to each other.” 

His voice wobbles, and he knows Steve understands that he’s not being flippant, not making light of this moment, of them. Because it is cheesy, but they do. They belong to each other. And so Steve drops his forehead to TJ’s, and they share a long kiss.

Steve exhales, brushing his lips over TJ’s again, and then he bends to retrieve his sketchbook, settling back into the chair in one quick, graceful motion.

“By the way,” he says, flipping the book open to a blank page and meeting TJ’s eyes once more. “I love you, too, TJ. Show me you know that you’re loved when you pose for me.”

Later -- much later, after the sketch, a long bath and a nap where no actual sleep happens -- Steve hands over the pad.

TJ flips past exquisitely detailed street scenes and landscapes until his own face is staring up from the page. Surely that’s not his smile, with that secret, suggestive tilt to his lips, and those aren’t his eyes, sparkling even in grayscale.

He bites back the quip that forms automatically and instead smiles at Steve, hovering his hand above the page.

“This is beautiful.”

He sees Steve fight and win the same battle he had, watches him square his shoulders instead of shrugging off the compliment. 

“Of course it is,” Steve says softly. “It’s you.”

\--

A few nights later, they’re headed to the kind of gala that generally makes Steve grind his teeth together and cling to his public persona. It’s for a good cause -- everything in D.C. is, at least on the surface -- but he’d likely have chosen to stay on TJ’s couch, if not for the fact that TJ’s headed to the same gala.

TJ’s begrudgingly representing the Hammond clan, with no excuse as handy as Elaine’s nightmarish schedule, Bud’s safari, Dougie’s new baby or Nana’s flat-out refusal. But he’d grinned at seeing Steve dig the same embossed invitation out of his jacket that TJ’d spent the last few minutes waving around in an impassioned rant about legacies and living his own life.

They’ll be there, together but not.

It’ll be TJ’s first time seeing Steve in a suit, and he finds himself wishing he wouldn’t be making his formalwear debut in this particular one.

“You can’t just _walk_ into _Nordstrom_ and buy something off the _rack_ , Steve,” Tony had told him. And now, as Steve is surveying himself in front of the full-length mirror in TJ’s bedroom, he’s kind of getting the point. 

Tailoring is the point. Tailoring, so that you can actually button both buttons of your suit jacket. The one that you only buttoned the top button on when trying on because you were in a rush, and you were in a rush because fancy department stores make you uncomfortable, because you grew up in the Great Depression and your boyfriend grew up with a Neiman Marcus personal shopper. 

Well, Steve thinks, at least people probably won’t even be looking at him once they see TJ, who is absolutely breathtaking in all black. His hair is parted to the side and then slicked back-- a far remove from its usual fluffy flyaways. His suit seems almost liquid in the way it drapes against his frame, and Steve can’t wait to carefully peel it off of him, despite how much he’ll want to rip it. Just looking at it makes Steve want to drop to his knees right there and undo the buttons and zippers and just take TJ in, swallow him down and metaphorically unzip him to his core. 

Instead, he meets TJ’s eyes in the mirror and gives a self-deprecating little chuckle. 

“You and Tony were right,” he says. “Next time, I’ll get a tailor.” 

“Next time?” TJ’s tone is playful. “You mean I’ll get to see you in couture again?” He fingers the unbuttonable button of Steve’s dove-grey jacket and smiles, that crooked little smile that makes Steve’s heart feel like a bird inside his chest, and not just a trifling little songbird but something more akin to a hawk, acutely intent and possessive. 

“You might.” Steve tries to sound nonchalant, but he can’t stop his lips from curling into what must be a very kissable smile. 

“If there’s going to be a next time, I’ll take you shopping.” TJ looks a little shy as he says it, and Steve kisses him quickly, still baffled that someone like TJ, with so much to offer the world, could lack confidence. Still baffled that someone like TJ chose him.

TJ didn’t just choose him, Steve reminds himself quickly. TJ _loves_ him, enough to leap off the cliff and make the first declaration. Even Steve’s serum-enhanced heart is still capable of skipping a beat, a fact he learned when TJ leaned forward, grabbed his hand and confessed feeling the same thing Steve had been holding back for weeks. 

“And maybe next time, we can go together.”

It’s Steve’s turn to be hesitant, but TJ turns a smile on him that’s pure sunshine, warming him through and setting the room aglow with his pleasure. Going public isn’t something they’ve talked about at length, not yet, but in an age of social media and paparazzi … it’s less of an _if_ and more of a _when_. Besides that is the fact that Steve isn’t really one to show his face at gala parties. Much to TMZ’s chagrin, when he’s not out saving the world, Captain America seems to be pretty much a homebody. 

Still, he’ll be happy to stand in the same room as TJ tonight, watching his effortless charm work on everyone who sees his smile or gets a quick moment of his time. Someday, he’ll be standing at TJ’s side. 

Whenever _when_ comes, Steve is ready.


	14. You Near Makes Me Feel Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our chapter song this time around: Lana del Rey's "You, Mister"
> 
>  
> 
> _And I, think that I might claim you as mine / So that my half can rest and everybody can tell_

The gala is everything Steve hates: loud and lavish, not to mention crowded. He never liked crowds as a shrimpy adolescent in New York, much less now as a brawny adult, one who feels like he’s still getting used to his own musculature and height. 

He sticks out, and that’s not something he wants, especially now, here in his ill-fitting (but expensive) suit and TJ in the corner of his eye, beautiful but untouchable. 

“I don’t care about the media,” Steve had said to TJ as he was getting dressed. “I’m not ashamed to be with you.” 

TJ had pressed a little kiss to Steve’s hairline, and then continued fastening a cufflink. “I know, and I’m not, either. I just don’t want to add any unnecessary stress on this night. I’m already freaking out a little just knowing that Sean is going to be there.” 

Steve had pulled TJ to him, then, and said, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll be there. But I’ll still be there when you’re not ready, too.” 

Now, Steve’s fiddling with his own cufflinks -- borrowed from TJ -- and watching TJ work the room. Anyone who didn’t know the younger Hammond brother well would think that TJ is having the time of his life; that he’s an extrovert who thrives in this type of environment. To Steve’s attuned eye, however, it’s patently obvious that TJ is faking it for all he’s got, that his right hand trembles ever so slightly when he reaches it out to clasp with that of a senator or a philanthropist. That his hairline is slightly damp, and that whatever hors d'oeuvres he’s put on his plate are picked apart by long pianist’s fingers. 

Steve knows enough to think that this is probably the first time TJ’s had to do one of these things sober since he was a teenager. 

***

The next time Steve’s able to spot TJ in the room, it’s when he’s engrossed in conversation with some senator -- Steve hadn’t caught his name -- and it looks like TJ is just finishing some small talk with a group of elegantly bejeweled ladies in his Nana’s age set (although she’d never admit as much). Steve tries to catch TJ’s eye over the senator’s shoulder but TJ turns at that moment and Steve realizes how evident it must be that he’s not paying attention to anything the senator is saying. 

Steve hurriedly takes a sip of champagne from the flute he’s been holding.

“-- and I figure if we can get the committee to go for it, it’ll be a done deal before the end of the year.” 

“Uh-huh.” Steve swallows and then turns to deposit his half-empty drink on a passing tray. The senator seems to take even this slight responsiveness on Steve’s part for genuine interest in continuing to converse, and takes another step closer to Steve, placing a hand on Steve’s arm. 

“So,” the senator says. “We haven’t talked about you at all, and with the life you’ve led, I’m sure there’s plenty to tell.” The hand squeezes briefly before letting go, and Steve’s heart gives a weird little flip in his chest that has nothing to do with arc reactors or childhood cardiac problems. Steve simply doesn’t want anyone to touch him like that who isn’t TJ. 

This isn’t the time to make a scene, though -- he’s here for TJ, _with_ TJ, whether it’s public record or not, and Steve will do whatever it takes to make sure that TJ makes it through this night unscathed. 

That’s when Steve finally catches TJ’s eye, as TJ comes striding over. TJ’s gaze cuts over Steve quickly, and Steve can’t figure out why until he notices TJ’s shaking hands and hears TJ’s cold, cold voice: “Sean, how nice to see you again.” 

***

TJ’s working the room the way he knows he’s expected to, the way that’s he’s done since he was a teenager. Smile, shake, small talk. Move on. He’s got a plate; it’s a handy prop. Avoiding awkwardness with appetizers is a skill TJ could probably add to a resume, if he had one. He’s seen many familiar faces tonight, but not the one he’s dreading. Not _yet_ , he amends the thought. 

He gives up his mostly-full plate to a waiter and accepts a hug from an aide from his father’s administration. That he can slide through this room as smoothly as bare skin over silk doesn’t mean he wants to be here. Knowing Steve is somewhere in the crowd, that they’ll be together when the night ends -- that’s what keeps the ever-ready smile on TJ’s face, keeps him moving through the crowd. 

TJ catches a glint of gold and smiles automatically, then nearly trips over his own feet. It’s Steve, yes -- the product of his first mini heart attack, the way he’s looking even in that off-the-rack suit -- but it’s also Sean. Steve, standing there, talking to Sean-- the source of his next two myocardial incidents. 

Sean touching Steve, even. That freezes the mounting panic in its place, and TJ straightens his shoulders, letting his for-the-masses smile shift into something a little different, something a little more predatory. Something that’s just for Sean, standing next to Steve, in the space where TJ should be.

He stalks forward just as Steve sees him and dims all the lights in the room with his smile. It could almost be a moment from the sappy romantic comedies TJ not-so-secretly loves, but the music doesn’t swell and people don’t automatically step aside as TJ moves through the crowd. It’s just a moment, unfolding in real time, where the man who loves TJ is standing with the man who made TJ believe no one would.

He stops a few paces away and considers. Sean hasn’t seen him -- he’s still flashing unnaturally white teeth at Steve, preening like the peacock he is. It’s almost funny, the thought that Sean clearly considers Steve worthy of his public attention, his best smile, the most charm. 

But just almost. 

Steve extends his hand out from his side. The movement's subtle; anyone who wasn't looking could easily miss it. TJ's looking, though, and he understands. 

Steve is asking a question, making an offer. TJ can step to his side, take his hand and Steve will stand with him, against Sean and the room and the world. Or TJ can keep walking, save this confrontation and the resulting storm for some future day. He can walk past Steve as if he doesn't see. As if sliding his hand into Steve's wouldn't be the most natural thing he could do. As if standing at Steve's side under the glare of the ballroom lights and being acknowledged as his partner doesn't fill his body with pride, rather than panic. 

TJ swallows, shakes his head a little ruefully. Discretion may be the better part of valor, but there are other ways to fight, and so Steve’s ever-ready shield, on offer even when it’s unseen, isn’t what TJ needs.

Time to borrow a little of the bravery he so admires in Steve.

He steps around Sean and reaches for Steve's strong hand: answering, accepting.

The press of Steve’s fingers to his -- a solid squeeze, and then Steve’s thumb traces his palm softly -- floods TJ’s chest with fluttery bird-wings of feeling that he’s astonished to realize are joy, not nerves. At Steve’s side, he’s not afraid of what comes next, not of Sean, not of the media, not of the world itself turning against him. Against them.

And so before he turns to face Sean, TJ looks up at Steve, who is, as ever, looking back with those ultramarine eyes, smiling like TJ’s the first hint of sun after a season of gloom. The fierce pride is practically radiating off Steve as he gently tugs TJ into his side. There’s no doubt to be seen: Steve watched TJ make his choice.

What’s to come, they’ll face together.

The shock on Sean’s face is something TJ will remember forever, and it lingers for a few telling seconds before Sean manages to replace it with bravado.

They haven’t seen each other since the run-in TJ orchestrated the morning before his last overdose, and Sean looks him up and down, not hiding the flash of hunger any more successfully than he had his surprise. 

It makes TJ’s skin crawl, but Steve’s hand is warm in his.

“Sean,” he says, letting Steve’s strength bleed into him at every point they touch. “How nice to see you again.”

He expected those words to feel like a lie, but standing next to Steve as he faces his former lover, TJ almost means it. Sean could hurl those same hate-filled words at him tonight, and TJ wouldn’t crumple like a discarded rough draft. He rewrote his story, slowly and painstakingly, and he’s actually -- finally -- pretty proud of the version he’s showing to the world. 

Sean shakes his head, his eyes fixed on TJ’s hand in Steve’s. “TJ Hammond. I shouldn’t be surprised, right? You always did get around.”

It’s a barb designed to cut, but TJ only laughs, turning to Steve with a smile. “Well, I used to meet a lot of closeted assholes,” he says with a shrug. “My luck’s improved a little bit.”

Steve takes his cue from TJ and nudges his shoulder. “I thought we agreed: I’m the lucky one.”

Steve turns to Sean then, and the affection vanishes from his face, replaced with steely disdain. He drops TJ’s hand and slides an arm around his waist.

“You’re Sean Reeves,” he says, in the same tone TJ and the rest of the world have heard him use for Hitler in old newsreels. “You should’ve introduced yourself. I wouldn’t have wasted my time pretending to listen.”

TJ can feel the tension in the arm around his back, and he knows Steve’s holding back -- recognizing an enemy but not fighting with anything more than his simple presence. It’s enough; it’s more than enough, it’s what Steve promised. 

He could stand here and verbally eviscerate Sean while the roomful of people around them pretends not to watch, and it’d be satisfying in the moment -- better than the reporter he compared to a jungle cat. But he doesn’t need it: doesn’t need to do what Sean did, doesn’t need to spend his time digging a tunnel to find his way down to Sean’s level. 

He wasn’t what Sean thought of him two years ago, and the man he is now doesn’t need Sean’s good opinion. TJ knows who he is, and so does Steve.

Yeah, it’s enough.

He turns from Sean easily, refocusing all his attention on Steve. “I’m done here. Wanna get a drink?”

“I’m with you,” Steve says, and this time, the crowd does part.

***

TJ knows that the second Steve took his hand, social media blew up. What he’s not prepared for, though, are the sheer numbers of paparazzi and media that have descended on the hotel entrance like a horde of bats. 

“So, how do you want to do this?” Steve is still holding TJ’s hand, still tall and solid at his side. 

TJ swallows. “I was thinking… I was thinking that we could go to my mom’s house.” He cranes his neck at Steve hopefully. “And I know that you haven’t met her yet, officially, but she’s been in this media-hounding game for a long time, and I think she can help us get out of here relatively unscathed.” 

Steve nods immediately. “Good call, TJ.” 

Warmth blossoms in TJ’s chest at this small praise, and he quickly locates his phone in the inside pocket of his suit coat. He texts rapidly, and the phone buzzes not long after. TJ presses it to his ear. 

“Through the pool? Okay. Got it. Thanks, Mom.” He hangs up and looks at Steve, a crooked smile spreading across his face. “You get that?” 

“I did.” Steve looks mildly confused. “I didn’t see a pool, though.” 

TJ’s smile gets a little bigger. “It’s on the rooftop. Mom’s sending a helicopter.” He reaches his hand out for Steve. “C’mon, babe. Let’s go.”


	15. The Haze of This City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's song: Augustana's "Stars and Boulevards"
> 
>  
> 
> _Look out, they're coming after us with big guns / They're only gonna tell you all the bad things I've done_

TJ pauses for a moment after they step off the helipad, laughing as Steve bumps into his back and then slides those massive arms around him, holding him close. Their shadows blur together in a puddle of moonlight, and TJ leans back into Steve before turning to twine both arms around Steve’s neck. It’s a moment of peace after a night of unexpected chaos, and TJ wishes they could linger in it, ignoring the chill of the air and the building media storm. He could just stand here in the dark, safe circle in Steve’s arms, and let the rest of the world fall away.

If only.

“Not how I thought this night was going to end,” he murmurs, sliding his hands under Steve’s leather jacket to warm them.

Steve touches his forehead to TJ’s, kissing him quickly before pulling back to give him a rueful smile. “It’s not over yet. I need to get you out of the cold. And you need to introduce me to your mother.”

“The cold might not sound so bad in a minute,” TJ warns, leaning in for another kiss before he grabs Steve’s hand to lead him down the path toward the house.

***

Steve’s not sure what he was expecting in meeting TJ’s mother, but he certainly wasn’t picturing the woman who meets them at the door in slippers and a dark green silk dressing gown.

She chivvies them inside and then pulls TJ in for a hug, which he only half shrugs off. 

“Jesus, Mom, you couldn’t have gotten dressed? And what’s this about you answering the door to two men in the middle of the night?” 

Elaine raises an eyebrow, amused. “What, like my gay son and his boyfriend? Sorry, sweetie, but I don’t need the Secret Service for that.” 

Steve clears his throat, feeling awkward. He takes his hand out of TJ’s to hold it out for Elaine. “Steve Rogers, ma’am. It’s an overdue pleasure meeting you.” 

“I agree.” Elaine eyes TJ, who shuffles his feet. 

“I was getting to it, Mom. It just wasn’t the right time yet. And now--” 

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Steve finishes, and retakes TJ’s hand, giving it a few reassuring squeezes. “Now, ma’am, do you have any tea or hot chocolate? I think this one here could use some.” 

TJ glares at him, but shivers nonetheless. “I’m really fine.” 

“Of course. And Steve-- it’s Elaine. People are so deferential nowadays; it’s Justice this and Justice that and frankly, I miss just being Elaine. Now come.” Elaine beckons them toward the kitchen, and Steve shrugs at TJ, tugging him along. 

Elaine Barrish’s living room manages to be both modern and somehow vaguely judicial; she has an authentic Eames armchair in one corner, and an antique lawyer’s cabinet filled with statute books against a wall.

Even though Steve still feels a little like he was called to the principal’s office, so far-- he likes Elaine. She’s intimidating, sure, but Steve’s faced down HYDRA and Hitler himself-- he can certainly handle TJ’s mother. 

Steve admires the books in Elaine’s cabinet for a moment before sitting next to TJ on the couch. He puts his hand casually -- yet possessively -- on TJ’s thigh as Elaine returns bearing steaming mugs on a tray. 

“Hot chocolate, Steve?” 

“Sure.” Steve leans forward and takes two mugs from the tray, handing one to TJ, who sighs but takes it and starts sipping. 

Elaine sets the tray down on the coffee table (a solid slab of lucite that Steve thinks maybe even Mjölnir couldn’t crack) and sips from her own mug. 

“So,” she begins. “Going public.” 

“So.” TJ repeats, not lowering his eyes from his mother’s. “What about it?” 

Elaine seems to consider, as if she’s at oral argument and she’s questioning a lawyer. “I’m very proud of you, honey, but I’m concerned. About what this news might do to you-- and to Steve.” 

Steve blanches, swallowing hot chocolate in a big gulp that burns his throat. “Me?” He pauses for a moment, setting his mug down and leaning forward urgently. “Elaine. Listen. It’s all right. I’m the one who was ready to take this public. TJ was being cautious, but this was his choice, and I support him in it.” 

“I don’t doubt that, but doesn’t _Captain America_ care at all about his public image?” 

Steve finds TJ’s hand and squeezes it hard. 

Elaine’s not finished. “Does SHIELD? Does the government? Because even if you don’t, Steve, I’m sure there are those of power out there who do, and I’m not sure you thought about what they might say about all of this.” 

“Jesus, Mom.” TJ rubs his hand over his eyes. “Can you tone down the ‘Justice Barrish’ bit for a minute and just listen?” 

“TJ.” Elaine sits up straighter in her seat. “I just want what’s best for you -- and while I agree that Steve seems to be a good partner for you, I’m just puzzled by your logic in going public with this relationship now. It’s given you no upper hand, and will likely just open the both of you up to public scrutiny. And honey, I just don’t like seeing what that does to you.” 

TJ’s hand shakes a little in Steve’s grip, and Steve’s sure that TJ is remembering waking up in hospital beds to sad-eyed relatives leaning over him as he apologized over and over. 

“I’m not sorry about it.” TJ’s hand is still shaking, but his voice is firm. “I know what this means, Mom, and I’m prepared for it. I know that it might get ugly, but being with Steve is worth it.” 

TJ’s tone is final, and although Steve can see unsaid words just itching to hop out of Elaine’s mouth, for all it’s worth, she doesn’t let them -- at least for now. 

That part comes later, when Steve goes to use the restroom and rejoins TJ and his mother in the foyer, where Elaine is all but wearing her black robe as she pontificates to TJ all of the reasons why going public with this relationship will be bad for him. 

For all it’s worth, once Steve’s standing next to him again, TJ’s done taking it. He steps forward, gives his mother a hug, and says, “Thanks for the help, Mom. We appreciate it. And I know that all of this” -- he waves his hand in the air between them -- “is because you have a hard time getting out of Justice Barrish mode and that’s not helped by the fact that I’m your son. But believe me, Mom. I can handle it this time. I have Steve with me now, and we’ll be all right.” 

***

It’s a toss-up between latest night and earliest morning when TJ finally unlocks his apartment door and Steve follows him inside. He should be exhausted, both from lack of sleep and the chaotic day looming ahead of them, but there’s a thrum of energy buzzing under his skin, and when he shrugs his coat off and turns to Steve, he sees the same wild brightness that he’s feeling reflected in Steve’s eyes. Steve hangs up TJ’s coat, then his own, with slow, precise movements, and then he hesitates. 

“Tired?” 

TJ shakes his head and then shrugs sheepishly, like Steve’s wringing a confession out of him. “Actually -- yeah. I am. Long day, you know?”

TJ feels momentarily guilty as Steve’s shoulders slump ever so slightly, but the response is a solicitous nod and a murmured “of course.”

The fact that Steve’s just so damn good to him is maybe the greatest aphrodisiac TJ’s ever experienced. He’s had his share of champagne and caviar, grand gestures and forced gallantry -- and it’s Steve, simply taking care of him, that sends his brain wandering in the wildest, wickedest ways. 

“Tired of seeing that terrible suit on this beautiful body,” TJ says, his voice low and conspiratorial, stepping forward to push his hands under Steve’s lapels and ease the jacket down his arms. He lets the jacket fall on the floor and toes it aside. “Talk about hiding your light under a bushel.”

Steve inhales sharply, and TJ’s hands slip from Steve’s shoulders to trail down his chest, deftly undoing the buttons of his crisp white shirt before it joins the jacket in a puddle of fabric.

“Tired of not being able to touch you the way I want to, too,” TJ says, resting his hands on Steve’s . “But everybody knows I’m yours now. Know what that means? I’m going to walk down the street and hold your hand. When you’ve got whipped cream on your mouth, I don’t have to point. I can just lean across the table and kiss it off ...”

TJ’s got a whole list prepared -- he watched the furrow in Steve’s brow as his mother talked about everything going public would mean for TJ, having his past dragged out in lurid detail, coupled with the accusations of having tainted, even ruined, a national hero. It doesn’t matter. The choice is made, and no matter what comes, he’s never going to regret Steve. He made a list of all the reasons why the world knowing is a good thing, a thing he wants. There’s a list, but then TJ’s stumbling hard, back rocking into the wall with the force of Steve’s weight.

He opens his mouth to form a thought or a question or some kind of something, but then Steve’s kissing him fiercely, and thought disappears into sensation. Steve’s mouth is on him, and then those strong hands are under his thighs, lifting him up.

If he was less intimately involved in this moment, TJ might give into an undignified whoop of glee. This is a fantasy playing out in real time as his back scrapes roughly against the wall, and he lets his head fall back against the brick, narrowly missing the side of his framed Kandinsky.

A throaty “yes, come on” is all he manages, and then Steve’s hands are gracelessly tearing his shirt open. TJ laughs as the buttons ping across the wood floor, tilting his neck to give Steve better access.

Steve’s mouth is hot on TJ’s neck as he’s fumbling to get TJ’s shirt off of him as quickly as possible. A shoulder seam rips, and the shirt’s finally on the floor. TJ laughs again. 

“In a hurry, much?” 

“You know I am.” Steve’s low voice scalds the inside of TJ’s ear, and he shivers as goosebumps break out on his newly bare arms. 

“Have at me, then.”

It’s both invitation and challenge, and Steve’s hand tugging at the button of TJ’s pants is clear acceptance. The rough pads of Steve’s fingers slide against TJ’s skin as he works the pants over TJ’s hips, letting him down only long enough to pull them off, along with his boxer briefs.

Then Steve’s hoisting him up again, hand wrapping around TJ’s cock, and it’s friction and heat and everything good, and all TJ can do is hold on, clinging to Steve and gasping into his mouth as Steve takes him apart with the sweet slide of his spit-slick fingers.

There’s a frantic air to the way Steve’s rutting against him, and TJ moves his hands from Steve’s back to clutch his neck, pulling Steve’s face up so they’re looking at each other, so he can see the ferocious want in the way Steve looks at him and so Steve can see how wholly TJ’s giving himself over.

The next time they walk out TJ’s front door, the world’s going to be watching, but this moment is theirs, and right now TJ’s whole world is the way Steve’s touching him, the way the skin below Steve’s ear tastes under his tongue.

“I love you,” he says into Steve’s neck around a moan he can’t keep back.

“I love you,” he says, and Steve finds a way to kiss him even more deeply, as if he can climb inside TJ and just inhabit his soul.

“I love you,” he whispers, and the pleasure is a white haze as Steve ruts against him once, twice more before groaning out his name. And TJ will never stop wondering at what it means that a few frenzied moments with Steve take his breath in ways lazy afternoons with other lovers never did. But he gets to have this, _he does have this_ , and the world can burn around them before he’ll walk away from Steve.

TJ’s doubly grateful for the surety of Steve’s strength in this moment where bliss has left him boneless. Steve gulps a breath, darts a kiss onto the side of TJ’s mouth and then he’s straightening, never loosening his grip on TJ as he carries him down to the hall. 

A shower sounds good, but the lure of sleep is stronger, and TJ crawls under the covers as soon as Steve deposits him onto the bed, holding out a hand.

“Sleep now.” 

He’s fading even as Steve quickly shucks his ruined pants and curls around him, murmuring nonsense into his ear. They sleep soundly, but for minutes and not hours, because the insistent buzz of Steve’s phone somewhere in the hallway as it vibrates across the hardwood floor is not the stuff dreams are made of.

Steve swears and slips out of bed, and TJ hears him answer in a manner far too polite for 4 a.m. The conversation’s brief, and TJ’s too muzzy to make out Steve’s end, but he forces his eyes open when Steve pads back into the room and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Whowuzzit?”

Steve slides a hand around TJ’s neck and leans in for a kiss that pulls TJ fully back to consciousness before he answers.

“Pepper. She’s been fielding the PR calls, wanted to ask me what I wanted to do.”

TJ pushes himself up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. “And what do you want to do?”

“I’m, uh, going on _The View_. In, uh... four hours.”

TJ blinks again and sits up. “Not in that suit, you’re not. Okay. All right. We’re doing this.” He catches Steve’s hand, tangling their fingers together. “You ready for this?”

And there’s the sunshine smile that makes his heart squeeze, a wordless reply that says everything.

They’re together. They’re ready.


	16. Unbreakable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lovely readers, I hope you didn't feel abandoned. Trust us, we're seeing this one through. But there were holidays, and travel, and then we actually got to spend a weekend hanging out in person. (!!!) All good things, and now we are excited to be back. We missed you. And TJ. And Steve. Hope the new year has been good to everyone so far! And thank you for all the glorious feedback so far -- we delight in every comment.
> 
> For this chapter, our song is "Saved" by The Spill Canvas.
> 
>  
> 
> _And this world is a time bomb ticking and I think I can stop it if you help me_

TJ hasn’t been interviewed on television since he was about sixteen. Sure, he’s appeared in blurbs and bits -- campaign promotional materials and the like, but the attention has never focused on him. After everything-- his mother wouldn’t allow it. Even so, he remembers what it felt like to sit on a stylish, uncomfortable couch and be barraged with questions, to have nowhere to look but at the live audience or his lap. To know that most of America -- or at least the voting-age population -- was watching.

TJ thinks if he had to do it again, he’d probably pass out.

But Steve -- Steve just looks about as serene as he ever does -- there’s not even a hint of flop sweat on his forehead.

“You ready?” TJ asks, and squeezes Steve’s shoulder. He meets Steve’s eyes in the big makeup mirror.

“Sure,” Steve turns around in the swivel chair. “I’ll get this over with and then we can order in some good grub. Sound good to you?” He says this so easily, as if this is no big deal; as if all of this is routine and not the slightest bit stressful.

“Okay.” TJ looks down at the floor, and then Steve’s standing, and nudging his chin up with his index finger.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “I’m doing this for us. This will make it all better, okay? No more hiding. There is nothing at all to be embarrassed or ashamed about here. I love you and I’m not afraid of telling America. All right?”

TJ nods, and Steve hugs him, hooking his chin over TJ’s shoulder.

“You just go pick out what you want to eat later, okay? And don’t even pay attention to what these biddies say.”

TJ laughs a little. “Please,” he murmurs in Steve’s ear. “If things go downhill out there-- please, just call them biddies to their faces. It will make my _life_.”

Steve pulls back and tips him a wink and a little salute. “Aye-aye.”

***

“So, let me get this straight-- you, Captain America-- are in a homosexual relationship with TJ Hammond.” Barbara Walters leans forward a little in her seat, her distinctive diction currently reaching the ears of millions of viewers.

Steve sits up a little straighter. “Yes, ma’am, that’s right.”

“You’re such a good old American boy,” Whoopi says. “All that ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no sir.’”

“Well,” Steve smiles, “I was brought up in a different time.”

“So-- yes, Brooklyn in the 1930s. Tell us a little about that.” Barbara says.

“Aren’t we getting off-topic?” Joy butts in. “He’s not here to talk about Brooklyn. If you want to talk about Brooklyn, you can talk to me any day of the week. No offense, Captain--”

“Steve,” Steve corrects her gently.

“-- Steve, but you’re here to talk about your relationship with TJ Hammond. Am I right?”

“You’re not wrong.” Steve smiles again, his eyes flickering for a second over to where TJ is sitting, offstage.

“So tell us.” Barbara folds her hands in her lap, and Whoopi and Joy look eager, while Elizabeth looks vaguely hungry and bored. Steve knows not to be fooled by this, however-- she’s the one he’s actually concerned about.

“I mean,” -- Steve gestures outwards -- “I’m not really sure how much there is to tell, except that we’re in a committed relationship and we’re doing really well. We’re really happy.” He smiles again, and this time, it’s so obviously real that it makes his previous smiles, while convincing at the time, pale in comparison like a desk lamp to the sun.

There’s a brief pause, as Elizabeth purses her lips. “But personally, I just don’t think that you’re promoting the kind of family values that America expects out of, well, Captain America.”

Steve opens his mouth hotly and then closes it again just as quickly, considering. _Don’t fuck this up, Rogers, don’t fuck this up for TJ._ He takes a breath, and just as he’s about to say something, Whoopi and Joy jump in, talking over the top of each other.

“But hasn’t America changed since 1945?” Whoopi asks, just as Joy says, “But isn’t it good for Captain America to promote gay values?”

They don’t go back to repeat what they’ve said, and Steve takes a moment to let it sink in before he responds. “I’m not here with an agenda,” he starts out, trying to look as earnest as possible. TJ has teased him about that look before, the Earnest Puppydog Look, he’d called it, saying that when Steve affected it, he made Boy Scouts look sinful. “No agenda,” he repeats. “I’m just here to come clean, so to speak-- to show America that I have nothing to hide. And I’m not gay,” he finishes, looking Elizabeth in the eyes. “But I do love TJ.”

“So if you’re not gay, why are you dating a man?” This time it’s Barbara who cuts to the chase.

“Bisexual is a thing,” Whoopi says, and Steve could kiss her. Wouldn’t-- but could.

“I mean, I’m not really here to get into labels,” Steve says.

“Then why are you here?” Elizabeth’s voice cuts in. “Excuse me, but isn’t this going to be kind of a difficult thing for America to accept? That Captain America is some sort of gay… bisexual… _something_ with America’s tragic former First Son?”

**

There’s another pause, and TJ holds his breath.

"Respectfully?" Steve says, in a tone that makes TJ sit a little straighter in his chair. "No. I think most people know about some of the difficult things I've faced in my life. A medical chart that used be as long as I was tall. The Great Depression. War. Evil dictators. Mad scientists. Aliens. Safe to say, I think -- those were difficult.

"Now, I know why you're asking. Captain America's a symbol. He means something to people. And some of those people aren't going to be happy that he has a boyfriend. But if that disappointment, that outrage, that misplaced anger is in some way difficult for them to deal with, I hope they can put their feelings in perspective."

The entire room is eerily quiet. TJ isn't entirely sure anyone's breathing, until Steve shrugs and smiles directly at him, and the collective inhale is as loud as if everyone had joined their voices to scream.

"Loving TJ Hammond is maybe the least difficult thing I've ever done. And maybe this isn't how I'd have chosen to let the world know, but let me be clear. I'm not ashamed, I will not apologize and I'm not interested in spending more time on the subject. I much prefer spending my time with my boyfriend. If you'll excuse me."

And just like that, as if he's not in the middle of a live interview while the nation is choking on Cheerios, spitting out coffee and gaping at him, Steve stands, unclips his mic, and walks offstage to TJ.

***

TJ goes mercifully unaware of any headlines until late the next morning, when he fields a call from his mom’s old publicist, from back in her campaign days. And sits up straight in bed, rubbing his eyes and groping around in the nightstand drawer for a pen and a piece of paper, Steve blinking up at him from the pillow next to TJ.

TJ listens to Suzanne-- the publicist, a tiny, manicured, and truly terrifying woman-- carefully for almost five minutes until he hangs up and sighs, placing his phone down on the nightstand.

He thinks about it for a moment, and then says something he hoped he’d never have to say to Steve: “We have to talk.”

_PARTY BOY BA(N)GS SUPERHERO_

_CAPTAIN GAYMERICA!!!_

_SUPERSCANDAL! CAPTAIN AMERICA COMES OUT_

_TJ’S NEW BJ BUDDY_

***

“Of course I don’t want to break up with you,” Steve says slowly, as if TJ woke up a little dense. “I just went on national TV to talk about how much I don’t care about what America thinks about us.”

“Yeah,” TJ admits. “But c’mon-- did you really think it’d blow up like this?”

Steve purses his lips, considering. TJ’s not at all in the mood right now, but even so, he can’t help but notice and be a little distracted by Steve’s beauty at a time like this. The man is better than a Norman Rockwell painting when it comes to embodying the perfection of classic Americana.

“Sure,” Steve replies. “I considered it as a real possibility.”

TJ swallows, embarrassed about the fact that he hadn’t, not really. It had all happened so fast-- the gala, the helicopter, his mother-- and then Steve was on the View, and then Steve had bought out a whole restaurant so that they could dine in privacy, and then they’d come home and…

TJ starts to run a hand through his hair, but Steve catches it and takes it in his own. “Babe,” Steve says gently, squeezing TJ’s hand until TJ looks up and meets his eyes. “I know that this is going to be a little rough-- and that neither of us were really expecting this now. But it had to come sometime, right? Unless we wanted to spend the rest of our lives never being seen together in public, and I don’t think either of us wanted that.”

TJ’s heart gives a little shiver when Steve says _the rest of our lives_ so casually, but he doesn’t feel like he has the emotional bandwidth to deal with that right now-- although he’ll certainly be thinking about it a lot later, he’s sure.

“Yeah,” TJ says, and sits up a little more. He scoots over in the bed, pushing his thigh against Steve’s, so that Steve can put his arm around him. Right then, TJ’s phone lights up with another notification.

_17 missed calls_

_8 voicemails_

_103 unread text messages_

TJ sighs again, and Steve picks up the phone and turns it facedown. “There,” he says, like that’ll fix everything, will counteract all of the horrible things that the media are going to say about him dating TJ, who, to be fair, was a pretty complete fuckup until pretty recently.

“Now listen to me,” Steve says, hugging TJ a little, “Really listen now, okay? None of this”-- he waves his hand blithely at TJ’s phone on the nightstand-- “fazes me at all, okay? So we lay low for a little while, so what. At least now I can hold your hand when we walk to the VA. And don’t worry-- I’m not going to leave over a few unflattering headlines.”

“It was more than a few.”

“I know. But that doesn’t change how I feel. Does it change how you feel about me?”

“No,” TJ mutters, and Steve nuzzles his neck a little.

It’s not so hard to believe what Steve’s saying: he means it, and TJ knows that. At the same time, his past experience seems determined to make him think otherwise. The spotlight and what its harsh glow reveals, those have been things previous partners have used against him. But this relationship is nothing like those, and Steve proves that every day.

TJ sighs and snuggles a little closer, trailing a fingertip over Steve’s bicep and grinning when Steve shivers in response. Maybe they can just stay here. Order in, cuddle under covers and pretend the rest of the world and its opinions don’t exist.

After all, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. The world’s supposed to be a little softer, a little brighter, a little more loving at this time of year and if TJ feels those sentiments all the more when he’s with Steve, hiding out for a few days seems to be perfectly within the holiday spirit.

The first order of business, then, is turning off his phone.

The second is wiggling around in Steve’s arms until TJ can see his face.

“Whole world knows,” he says, watching Steve’s smile stretch a little. “No going back now. I’m yours; you’re mine. And they all know it.”

He adjusts his position again so that he winds up straddling Steve’s lap. “Maybe we should celebrate.”


	17. Running From Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lovely readers: our song this time around is "Second Chances" by Gregory Alan Isakov.
> 
> _I'm a shot through the dark / I'm a black sinkhole / If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone_
> 
> Also, please be aware -- there's some homophobic language in this chapter. If you need to ask any questions before reading, feel free.

TJ wakes up well before light has dared to attempt creeping through his curtains, comfortably sprawled over Steve in a way that leaves Steve’s bare hip directly under his face. 

Possibly a gentle bite to your lover’s hip is a less-than-kind greeting to consciousness, but TJ’s yet to pass up an opportunity to explore Steve’s skin, whether with teeth or tongue or the touch of his fingers. He uses all three now, soothing the bite with his tongue, then tracing his handiwork with his index finger, keeping the contact light. Teasing. Playful. 

Steve’s watching him with sleepy eyes, half-awake and half-aroused. If TJ stopped here, now, Steve would slip back into dreams, and the warm weight of him would lull TJ to sleep, too. He could stop. He could sleep. 

But restraint’s a funny thing. TJ exercises it so well in so many other areas of his life. So this? He gets to have this. And now that he's got the taste of Steve’s skin in his head, he's a rubber band pulled to the absolute capacity of its reach: there is only one reasonable outcome. 

Snap. 

He sinks his teeth into Steve’s hip again. 

Steve’s not looking so sleepy now, summer-sky eyes tracking TJ’s every move, breath coming a little faster even though he’s still relaxed against the pillow. Watching. Shivering, as TJ breathes warm air over his hip bone. Curling his fingers as he tries to hold still and let TJ play.

TJ loves to play.

But there’s a time for it, and as much as TJ’d like to continue making up rules in this game -- today he can only make Steve come with his hands; he has five minutes to make Steve beg; they have to fuck until they break the bed -- there are other, less wanton pursuits that he’s (almost as) eager to get to.

Like presents.

Even though Steve’s skin is softer than it has any right to be, softer even than the half-smile he’s giving TJ. Even though. TJ slides his tongue over his own lip and swallows hard, then shakes his head.

“More of that later. I’m making you breakfast.”

“You could _be_ breakfast,” Steve points out reasonably, and TJ ducks out of reach of those grasping hands even as he wonders why he’s resisting.

Right. Presents.

“We both know we’re going to end up seeing my family tomorrow. It’s Abigail’s first Christmas. So I figured … this could be ours.”

Calling it their first Christmas implies it won’t be the last, but the words don’t stick in TJ’s throat. He leans down for a quick, quick kiss -- he who lingers is bound to be lost under the covers all morning -- and scoots backward to stand.

“Breakfast,” he says again. “In bed. Stay.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, and TJ winks. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while.”

***

TJ grabs the few gifts left underneath his miniature tree. There are two for each of them. His heart gives a little squeeze when he sees “To T.J., Love from Steve” written in Steve’s distinctive handwriting. 

He almost jogs on his way back to the bedroom, he’s so eager to watch Steve open his gifts. 

“Hey there,” Steve says fondly when TJ reappears in the doorway. “What’ve we got here?” He gently takes the gifts from TJ’s arms and sets them on his blanketed lap. He pats the bed next to him. “Come on up, champ.” 

TJ grins, and hops up next to Steve, sitting cross-legged on top of the covers. “You first,” he says, pushing the larger box on Steve’s lap a little closer. 

“Okay.” Steve grins back, and carefully uses his index finger to open up the wrapping paper. 

“Come on,” TJ says, impatient. “It’s not the 1930s anymore; you can rip the paper. I want to see you open it sometime this year.” 

Steve gives him a long-suffering look, and then tears into the paper more vigorously. He takes out a dark black cardboard box with “Neiman Marcus” embossed on it. He runs his hand over the box wonderingly, and then pulls it open. Nestled inside a bed of tissue paper is a beautiful cobalt-blue cashmere sweater. 

Steve looks at the sweater for a long moment, feeling it between his fingers. Then he leans over and kisses TJ, hard. Almost hard enough to knock him over. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispers in his ear, and that’s the best present TJ could ever get. 

“Now you,” Steve tells him, and nudges TJ’s shoulder. 

“Which one- big or small?” 

Steve taps the bigger one, and TJ rips into it immediately. Steve pretends to blanch, and TJ shrugs. “What? My family didn’t save wrapping paper, okay?” 

Steve gives him a good-natured squeeze on the leg, and watches intently as TJ pulls out an identical Neiman Marcus box. 

TJ starts to laugh before he even opens up the box. 

“I think we used the same personal shopper,” he jokes, and Steve laughs, too. 

“No, I think we just both know your favorite store well. Now get on with it-- you opened the paper quickly enough. Let’s see what’s inside.” 

Inside is another cashmere sweater, grey but with a slight hint of blue. 

“I thought it would match your eyes,” Steve says softly, and TJ leans over to kiss him. 

“Thank you,” TJ says. “I love it. And I love you.” 

“I love you, too, TJ Hammond,” Steve tells him, and TJ feels a warm glow inside his chest, like that song about the candle under a bushel. He’s not going to hide it, no. 

“Okay. Should we open the others at the same time?” TJ suggests. 

“Sure,” Steve replies easily. “But only if you put on that sweater.” His eyes twinkle, and when TJ takes off his t-shirt to pull the sweater on, Steve runs a hand down TJ’s torso with more than a hint of desire. 

“Mmm,” TJ says. “I don’t even need to open my next gift. It could just be you.” 

Steve chuckles, and it makes TJ want to push him back onto the pillows, pin him down. He knows that Steve’s much stronger than him and can easily get away any time he wants, yet the way Steve lets TJ top him sometimes… it makes TJ shiver with desire of his own. 

“Soon,” Steve promises, and taps TJ’s other gift. “Presents first, then sex.” 

They open the next gifts at the same time, and TJ can’t stop his smile when he sees that his is a miniature metal keychain of Captain America’s shield. 

Steve looks a little embarrassed. “It’s so you can take me with you wherever you go,” he mumbles, and TJ squeezes his hand. 

“I love it,” he says. “Now you. And hurry up. I’m horny and impatient.” 

“All right, all right.” Steve tears open his own small gift bag to find an assortment of 1930s and 40s candy. 

“Hey,” he says happily. “I haven’t had some of these since before the war! Thanks, honey.” He kisses TJ’s cheek. 

“You’re sweet enough already,” TJ says, “but I thought you’d like these. And don’t worry, they’re not real vintage.” 

“Good,” Steve says, voice getting husky. “But I am. You want to taste?” He growls a little, and nips at TJ’s neck.

“Do I,” TJ says, and they fall back on the bed together. 

***

Coming back to the VA after the interview, the tabloids and the holidays seems strangely like coming home. TJ unlocks the door to his piano room and pauses in the doorway for a moment just to breathe. 

This piano’s far inferior to his own beloved Bösendorfer, as instruments go, but the feeling he gets when he touches these keys is something different, something divine. It sends a weird kinetic energy coursing through his fingertips, as if somehow he can infuse the ivories with his natural ability and let it hum there, to be absorbed into Corey’s and Henry’s and Lexie’s and Eden’s potential.

He decides on a little Beethoven to warm up his fingers and launches into Sonata Pathétique, letting the music flow over all the worries he brought with him. By the time he’s through the second movement, his shoulders have relaxed and Corey’s standing in the doorway, backpack at his feet, listening with his eyes closed. 

TJ hasn’t seen him since the triumph of the recital -- or since his own name’s been splashed over every tabloid and talk show in the country. Impossible to know what Corey may have heard, what conclusions may have been drawn in paint-by-numbers style for him. TJ’s incredibly conscious that there’s a Steve-sized elephant in the room, but maybe Corey’s just here for a lesson and not an awkward discussion about what happens when a boy loves another boy. He tries not to let his hesitance creep into his smile when he turns to Corey.

“Hey,” he says, patting the bench. “You all set?”

Corey nods and steps over his backpack, sliding onto the bench next to TJ. He readies his fingers over the keys but pauses, looking straight ahead.

“Did you have Christmas at your house?”

TJ’s suddenly grateful for every public appearance he’s ever made under pressure as he wills his face not to react to the devastation inflicted by Corey’s question. He’s not asking whether TJ celebrated Christmas at his house or somewhere else; he’s asking whether TJ celebrated at all. And his only reason for asking that is painfully apparent. One deep breath, then another, and then TJ’s sure he can answer without his voice breaking.

“I did, yeah. I have a brand-new niece, so I spent the day with her. Mostly watching her sleep. She’s too little to open presents, but it was nice just to be there, since it was her first Christmas.”

“Babies are supposed to get presents anyway, though, right? Even if they can’t open them?”

“Well,” TJ says carefully, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his cardigan as if a conversational guide might magically appear, “not every family celebrates Christmas. And every family might celebrate differently. And that’s okay.”

“Kids are supposed to get presents, too. But my grandma was sick, and my dad forgot. I know Santa’s not real,” Corey adds before TJ can say anything. Not that there’s anything to say, when Corey’s quiet admission is breaking TJ’s heart into phantom pieces he can feel digging into his chest.

TJ mentally apologizes to Steve for what he’s about to do, but it’s a choice between laughter or tears, and levity feels like the only real option.

“You know what I got for Christmas? A sweater.”

Corey wrinkles his nose. “That’s lame.”

“What?” TJ claps a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I mean, I was going to get one for all of my students, so we can all match at the next recital, but if you think it’s lame …”

Corey’s eyes are wide with horror. 

“Maybe not, then?” TJ shrugs and lets out a gusty sigh. “Okay, then. We can settle for a pizza party. I can see if Captain America can come.”

“Iron Man, too?” 

He’s gonna owe Steve a favor. “Iron Man, too.”

A superhero pizza party is apparently enough of a momentary distraction from the world’s evils, because Corey nods and begins his piece.

It’s unpolished, and he stops several times to find his place, but he continues to play through the last note. As the note echoes in the room, Corey folds his hands into his lap, head bowed, posture that of a boy waiting for the criticism he clearly feels he deserves.

How well TJ knows that position.

He’s going to say something good, something sappy and inspirational that will probably turn Corey’s face flaming red, but there’s a loud voice in the hallway, and Corey flinches, shrinking into himself. 

“Hey,” TJ starts, but then the door flies open, hard enough to crash against the wall, and Corey’s not looking, he’s ducking his head into TJ’s shoulder, as if that will hide him from the man looming in the doorway.

So this must be the famous father, TJ thinks to himself. Figures. 

“Is this the faggot teacher who shows you how to play show tunes?” He’s nearly spitting the words across the room, stalking forward until TJ can see the crazily dilated pupils and the runny nose, which tell him more than the clenched fists and florid cheeks.

_Oh._

Coke, then. It’s an odd feeling of kinship -- TJ tended more toward overexcitement when he was using, but he had plenty of experience with the guys who seemed to bend over a line and come up fighting.

TJ slides off the bench and hurries to step in front of Corey, not that he’s going to be much good as a human shield, if it comes to that. Fortunately, that’s when the guy who actually carries a shield shows up. Steve’s eyebrows are raised as he steps into the room, clearly having heard the commotion from down the hall in Sam’s office, but when he sees a burly man hurling invective as he advances on TJ … it’s the first time TJ’s really seen Captain America in action, up close and personal.

If only the circumstances were different. As soon as he sees Steve’s hand close on Corey’s dad’s shoulder -- _Luke,_ TJ’s brain supplies -- he turns to Corey, trembling on the bench.

“TJ,” Steve says loudly, pushing his voice over the slurs still spilling out of Luke’s mouth like dirty rainwater from a gutter, like he's held in these terrible thoughts for so long and now he has to make room for more. TJ tries to tune him out, focus on Corey. Listen to Steve. 

“Are you okay?”

It’s a testament to, well, _everything_ that’s changed in TJ’s life that he actually takes a second to consider before he answers instead of just the auto-fine that he used to pair with a charming smile to reassure whoever was asking. He nods at Steve now, because yeah, this isn’t fun and it’s dredging up a lot of shitty memories, but the priority here is Corey. TJ? TJ’s okay and says so.

“He’s high,” he mouths carefully to Steve while Luke’s twisting around to shake free of Steve’s grip on him.

“Come on, Corey,” TJ says, holding out his hand. Corey’s maybe a little old for holding hands, but in this instance-- maybe not. Corey takes it and the two of them quickly make their exit from the practice room and down to Sam’s office. 

“Is there a situation?” Sam asks, already standing up from behind his desk. “Is Steve on it?” 

Sam obviously knows Steve well. 

“Yes, and yes,” TJ tells him. “But I’m sure he could use your help.” 

Sam hurries out of the office, and then TJ and Corey are alone with Sam’s motivational posters and uncomfortable chairs. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” TJ tries gently. 

Corey shakes his head violently. “No.” He’s crying a little bit, and TJ wordlessly hands him a tissue from the box on Sam’s desk. 

“Okay, then. For now,” TJ starts, “I think calling your grandma would be a good idea. What do you think?” He’s calling Corey’s grandma regardless, but he’d like to give Corey at least a little feeling of autonomy over the situation. 

Corey nods. “Okay.” He blows his nose and then takes another tissue on his own. 

“Do you want to be here while I call her, or should I step out of the room?” TJ asks. “Either way is fine.” 

“Stay,” Corey says softly, and TJ squeezes his shoulder. God, did he really do this to his own family, and so many times? 

As he dials, TJ thinks about how glad he is that he and Steve were both here for Corey. That he’s now on the other side and is _capable_ of being there for someone. That this isn’t him, not anymore, and not ever again. 

“It’ll be okay,” TJ tells Corey as the line rings. “Pizza party with Iron Man, remember?” 

Corey’s smile is small, but it’s there. And for that, TJ is glad, too. 


	18. You've Begun to Feel Like Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been HOW long since we posted? Trust us, we missed this story more than you did! Life intruded in some very real ways, but we're both glad to be getting back into the swing of this story. Also: same warning as last chapter, for a homophobic slur.
> 
> This chapter's song is "Look After You" by The Fray. 
> 
>  
> 
> _When I'm losing my control, the city spins around / You're the only one who knows, you slow it down_

“He said _what_?” 

TJ would have guessed by now that he’s seen Steve in every mood he’s got, but it seems there’s a new category needed for the startling shade of red Steve turns when someone uses a homophobic slur toward the man he loves.

Maybe the event recap was a bad idea.

“Hey,” he says soothingly, stepping forward to put a hand on Steve’s hip, squeezing lightly. “You think no one’s ever called me a faggot before? No points for creativity, and besides, the whole thing was pretty much over after that.”

Over as far as TJ’s interaction with Luke, anyway. But the time in Sam’s office had been one painful memory download after another, until TJ was out of RAM, unable to deal with Corey’s feelings on top of his own.

***

_Corey’s huddled in the corner of Sam’s office, hugging his knees, trying to shrink himself while he pretends the scuffed toes of his sneakers are suddenly fascinating. His shoulders are shaking with silent sobs, and he’s got a Kleenex crumpled in his fist, refusing to look at TJ._

_Maybe that’s for the best, considering what TJ’s about to do: peel back a few protective layers and expose the mess hiding in his past. No eye contact needed for this part. He takes a long, steadying breath, drumming his fingertips on his thighs, and then reminds himself that the easiest way out is through. He can’t be sure how Corey’ll react, but that’s not the point. Coming clean -- TJ has to choke back a wholly inappropriate snort at the unintentional pun -- is just another thing he’s got to do._

_“I used to be a junkie,” he says softly, forcing his eyes to meet Corey’s when the boy’s head jerks up._

_“Like my dad?” he asks, accusation bleeding out of his tone as he straightens, all the slumped defeat switching instantly into tension._

_Out. Through._

_“Like your dad. I’m clean now, but it took me a while. Some pretty big screw-ups along the way. Bigger than that, even,” TJ admits, jerking his shoulder toward the piano room._

_Corey’s expression is unimpressed, lips formed into a scowl as he processes what TJ’s saying, processes that his beloved teacher used to be just like his currently-less-beloved dad._

_“I’m not going to tell you not to be mad,” TJ continues, as a montage of his family’s disappointed, furious faces plays through his memory. “He’s responsible for every choice he makes. Even the bad ones. Okay? And you get to be mad about that. You get to feel however you want to feel about it. He forgot Christmas? Be mad. He missed your recital? Be mad. He showed up here and embarrassed you? Yeah, buddy, be mad. That’s okay._

_“The thing is -- and this is the thing I know because I’ve been there, screwing up and making everyone who loved me really, really mad -- he still loves you. I promise you, Corey, that’s true. Even when you don’t feel it, and even when he can’t say it. Because him screwing up: it’s not your fault. It’s not because of you.”_

_TJ pauses for breath and checks to see if Corey’s following, or whether he’s making the whole thing worse in his inimitable style. Corey’s lip is wobbling again, but his huge brown eyes are locked on TJ’s face._

_“Grandma says … Grandma says it’s demons,” Corey says haltingly, and the quaver in his voice is going to be TJ’s undoing. “The kind that live in your head, not the kind under the bed.”_

_“Your grandma is an incredibly wise woman.” TJ shrugs, feeling both better and worse. Talking about it’s good and healthy and right, but it’s never going to be easy to remember the TJ that was. But maybe it’s helping Corey, too, in some small way, and so all the remembered pain is more than worth it._

***

The stress of the day is far from over, though, even after they’ve navigated the minefield that was TJ recounting what Steve had missed. Someone being cruel to TJ in that manner is a grenade Steve wants to hold to his own chest, rolling away and taking the damage himself, but this one exploded before he made it into the room. He’s satisfied with the way it turned out, as much as he can be, and TJ seems okay. That level of okay-ness is something Steve plans on reassessing throughout the evening … which he’s got all planned out. A little talking, a lot of cuddling, and maybe some gentle love-making. He’s got everything all set -- at least until he gets the text message. 

*** 

“It’s not a for sure.” That’s all that Steve can keep telling himself, all that he can seem to say, pacing around Sam’s tiny office like a caged circus animal. Who knows what he’ll do once he gets out. 

“Steve.” Sam’s following his movements with his dark eyes, lip bitten like he wants to use his tongue as a whip to tame Steve. 

“What?” 

“You need to calm down.” Sam’s using his therapy voice and the timbre of it makes Steve want to throttle him. 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to be calm when-- when-- _Bucky_ \-- could be lying dead in a field somewhere.” Steve’s voice cracks. “I have to see for myself.” 

“No,” Sam says slowly, “You don’t. Bucky is not your responsibility.” 

“But I was the one who let him go,” Steve says, and this short sentence is multifaceted: he’s not sure whether the real meaning is that he let go of Bucky’s hand on that train in 1945, or that he let the Winter Soldier escape in DC. 

“Steve,” Sam repeats. “I want to stop this line of thinking. Bucky is not yours to deal with, not anymore. It might be hard to hear, but it’s the truth. And I want you to remember that you have your own job to do now, here. You have a boyfriend at home and a team who’s counting on you not to run off anytime there’s a potential sighting of the Winter Soldier. You read me?” 

It takes a minute, but Steve nods. “... Yeah. I read you.” 

“Now,” Sam says, still in that measured tone, “Why don’t you head on over to TJ’s and try to take your mind off of it for a while? I know Bucky’s important to you -- man, I get it. But there are more important things at stake here than a _possible_ sighting. You go home? That’s real, Steve. You go out looking for Bucky? That’s like chasing smoke.” He crosses his arms over his chest again, and there’s something in that gesture that helps Steve snap out of it a little. 

“Okay.” Steve breathes out, hard. “I’ll go see TJ. And I won’t think about it.” 

“I’m not telling you not to think about Bucky, or that you can’t,” Sam says, and he’s reasonable in ways Steve is envious of. “I’m just saying that you shouldn’t throw away something real for something that’s just a maybe.” 

There’s a lot unsaid in this -- Steve knows that he doesn’t have to explain himself to Sam; Sam knows that Steve’s not ready to leave TJ for a Bucky that doesn’t even remember him, or a Bucky in any iteration, but it’s something that Steve needs to hear, regardless. 

Because no matter how much he wants to only focus on what’s real and waiting for him at home, there’s still a tiny part of him that’s ready to jump on his motorcycle and speed off to check on the possible Winter Soldier sighting. That little part of him is like a mostly-healed cut that’s come back open and is stinging, demanding attention. 

Steve hesitates a little at the door of the VA; a little like he might turn the other way, away from TJ’s house. A slight hesitation, a little flicker of his fingers, a tiny ache like a hand has been torn away from his. 

He pauses, but then he turns and makes his way towards TJ. Towards home. 

***

“I made macaroni and cheese.” TJ says as he opens the door for Steve. “I thought some comfort food might be good.” He tugs Steve to him gently and wraps him in a firm embrace. “C’mere, honey. Let me get you a plate.” 

Steve doesn’t say anything until after his third serving of macaroni. “Sam said that Bucky isn’t my responsibility,” he says quietly, scraping his fork across the plate and then licking it. “And even though I know that he’s okay, or at least not dead, I just--” 

TJ takes his plate and goes to the kitchen to fill it again without being asked. Steve seems to need the time to think, and the food seems to fill some emptiness gnawing within him. 

Steve takes a few more huge bites before speaking again. “I didn’t want you to think that I was more focused on him than you,” he says, looking down at his plate. 

TJ gets it. He does. Bucky is a train run off the rails and Steve thinks it’s his job to bring him back on course. But TJ knows that while it only takes one person to throw a train off its tracks, it takes a hell of a lot more to get it back on. 

TJ pats Steve’s thigh lightly. “I know.” And he does. He can’t say that he didn’t have his doubts; that even if he’s 99 percent convinced that Steve is here with him to stay that that last one percent isn’t terrified that he’ll get up and go out that door right now, but he’s doing a lot better. 

Steve forks more macaroni into his mouth, chewing and swallowing until his plate is clean again. 

“Hey,” TJ says. “Food was good?” 

Steve makes a sound a little like a groan. “Really good.” He puts his plate on the coffee table and then toes off his boots and scoots down on the couch until his head is in TJ’s lap. “C’n we just sit here and watch TV? I’m probably going to fall asleep.” He snuggles a little further into TJ’s lap, and TJ wills his dick to calm down because now is not the time. 

TJ fumbles around for the remote, smushed into the side of the couch. 

“Any preference on what to watch?” 

Steve makes a noncommittal sound into TJ’s thigh. 

“So… Elizabeth Montgomery it is,” TJ says, mostly to himself. Steve moves around a bit as TJ’s navigating the smart TV options, and eventually ends up faceup in TJ’s lap, eyes shut, breathing slowly and evenly. 

Steve falls asleep surprisingly quickly and doesn’t wake up until Endora is screeching something at Darrin (the real Darrin, none of that new Darrin business), blinking up at TJ with an adorably confused look on his face. 

“What’s this?” 

TJ can feel himself blushing. “Bewitched.” 

“What’s that?” Steve lifts one of his giant arms and waggles his fingers in supplication until TJ takes his hand and squeezes. 

“It’s a show from the 1960s,” TJ explains, “about a witch and her family.” 

“Mm.” Steve doesn’t seem incredibly interested and TJ isn’t surprised; the guy has just had some roller-coaster emotional news about his childhood best friend slash former lover and just ate enough macaroni and cheese for a battalion. TJ thinks he deserves the food coma. 

Steve wakes up again three episodes later and sits up, rubbing his eyes. “What’d I miss?” he asks thickly, yawning and stretching. He’s so adorable that TJ doesn’t even mind that his legs have been asleep and tingling for the last twenty minutes. 

“Not much,” TJ says, smiling. “Just some casual sexism and a lot of groovy 60s clothes.” 

“Mm.” Steve rubs his eyes. “Sorry, babe. I really conked out there.” 

“It’s all right,” TJ reassures. “It’s been a long day.” 

“Sure has,” Steve agrees, and then a little spark comes into his eye. “You deserve a little rest too, you know.” 

TJ catches the spark. “Do I?” he teases gently, and then Steve’s hand is running through his hair in the way he likes and his other hand is on TJ’s thigh. 

And suddenly, they're both burning.


	19. A Warm Safe Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the writing flows, it really flows. And when it doesn't ... well, you go several weeks without a new chapter. But we're back, with more story and more assurances that this story will never be abandoned. We're seeing it through to the (not bitter at all) end. Thanks for continuing to read and review!
> 
> This chapter's song is "Sweet Child O' Mine," but we listened to Sheryl Crow's cover on repeat. 
> 
> _(he's) got eyes of the bluest skies / As if they thought of rain / I hate to look into those eyes / And see an ounce of pain_

The display of TJ’s phone tells him that Steve is calling. The voice on the other end of the call tells him something different. It only takes four words for the quiet calm of his day to shatter.

“Hey, TJ, it’s Sam.”

Sam on Steve’s phone. Sam on Steve’s phone in New York, where Steve (and Sam, and the rest of the Avengers) are handling what Steve called “a really minor invasion, babe, you won’t even see it on the news, it’ll be over so quickly.”

Steve’s been gone for 19 hours, and true to his prediction, TJ hasn’t seen him on the news. He hasn’t heard from him, either, and now Sam’s voice is in his ear. Saying his name.

“How bad?” He can barely force the words out around the saliva suddenly flooding his mouth. What Steve does, it’s dangerous, and if it’s Sam calling instead of Steve, maybe dangerous is an understatement. Maybe deadly is more appropriate.

When the word “dead” flashes through his mind, TJ gags on nothing, like he’s drowning on dry land where he sits on the piano bench.

Sam’s still talking.

“TJ. TJ, hey, hey. Take a breath, okay? Breathe with me.”

TJ swipes at his cheek and sucks in a breath. “Tell me. Sam, you’ve gotta tell me.”

“He’s okay. He’ll _be_ okay,” Sam amends hastily, because he’s all about truth-telling, and apparently saying that Steve is currently okay … that’s not the truth. But his voice is steady in TJ’s ear, and the next breath comes a little easier.

“Tell me,” TJ says again, curling his fingers around the edge of the bench until his knuckles are bone-white.

Sam pauses. “It’s gonna sound worse than it is. So remember what I said. He’ll be okay.”

“I’m on a plane in 30 minutes if you don’t tell me something in the next 30 seconds.”

“We’ll have him back to you in two hours. Just letting him sleep a little -- okay, we tranqed him so that he’d sleep -- before we take off.”

TJ’s no supersoldier, but his hand’s trying to crush the bench. “Sam.”

Another pause, and a deep, deep sigh.

“He got hit by a taxi.”

It’s so normal, so far from what TJ was expecting, that it takes him a second to process.

“A taxi.” He repeats it woodenly, like the words are unfamiliar.

“The man’s a great soldier, amazing tactician. Handled the sentient tentacle army, no problem. Looking both ways before he crosses a damn street, though -- we’re gonna work on it.”

TJ’s breath hitches in his throat and he hacks out a half-laugh, half-cry.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” TJ swallows. “It’s just-- so _Steve_.”

Sam sounds bemused. “I know, man, I know. Now listen. We’re going to take off now, but we’ll be there in two hours, probably less. I’ll text you.”

TJ’s opened his mouth to say goodbye but Sam’s already off the line.

***

Sam’s hand is poised to knock when TJ flings the door open. It’s been a hundred and seventeen minutes since Sam said “two hours,” and TJ’s been pacing in his tiny foyer for the past 47 of those. TJ ignores Sam’s surprised face and the knowing smirk of the petite redhead he quickly recognizes as the Black Widow; there may be three people standing in front of his door, but he only sees Steve.

“Oh God,” TJ says when he sees that Steve’s not even conscious, instead being mostly carried by Sam and the redhead and then deposited carefully on TJ’s couch.

“So,” Sam starts. “He’s a little-- um--”

“Useless,” the Black Widow says, then flinches. “Ow, Sam, that was _not_ necessary--”

“You don’t need to say that to him!” Sam gestures at TJ’s face, which must still be doing a weird thing, even though he’s currently too distracted by Steve to really notice anything else.

“Well, it’s true,” Natasha says. “Although it’d be a fun party trick to tranq him and then take him to a media event or something…”

“Nat!”

“Not this much of a dose, obviously, we’d want him _conscious_ , but--”

TJ tunes out this bickering to give Steve his full attention. He retrieves throw pillows and props Steve’s head and neck up. Steve makes a little “unf” sound and TJ’s heart jumps into his throat for a second.

God, now he knows how Steve felt when he came home and found TJ delirious. How panicked he must’ve been.

He kneels next to the couch and strokes Steve’s cheek.

“You’re sure he’s going to be fine?” He can’t help asking, and the Black Widow and Sam stop arguing to look at him.

Sam’s smile is kind, and so is the Widow’s, even if she does still look like she could kill them all with any household object within arm’s length.

On the couch, Steve moans softly and his eyes start to flutter open.

“--eeej?”

“Yeah, honey, I’m right here.” TJ squeezes Steve’s limp hand, which flutters a little before giving one slow squeeze back.

“TJ?” Steve swims closer to the surface of consciousness, but it seems to take a lot of effort, and his eyes shut again.

“They had to give him a pretty large dosage,” the Black Widow observes, picking at an invisible hangnail. “But he should come around for real in about half an hour or so, and then you can give him some TLC or whatever you have planned.” She arches an eyebrow, and TJ suddenly wants to laugh.

Is the Black Widow-- _notorious assassin_ \-- punking him right now?

“Sorry about her,” Sam says with a sigh. “She’s only partially housebroken-- ow!”

“He’s not sorry,” the Widow says, flicking her hair back. “Also, I don’t think I actually introduced myself properly. Too busy lugging your hunky lug around.” She nods down at Steve. “I’m Natasha. Natasha Romanov. You can call me Nat, if you turn out to be as charming as Steve says you are.”

“Which he is,” Sam butts in.

TJ rises to shake Natasha’s hand awkwardly, as she moves lithely past him to perch on top of the couch, carefully not bumping Steve or his injured ankle.

“Hey,” TJ warns. “No shoes on the couch.”

The Widow-- Nat-- surveys him evenly. “But blood and alien guts are okay, as long as they’re on your boyfriend?”

Sam sniggers.

TJ runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. “Well, _yeah_.”

Natasha keeps his gaze for a moment too long, then shrugs and pulls her leg up in a yogic sort of movement and starts to tug her boots off. “I knew I liked you,” she says, letting the second boot drop behind the couch with an audible thud. Steve stirs a little but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Please, just make yourself at home,” Sam says to Natasha, and she just rolls her eyes at him. TJ somehow gets the sense that the two of them are fucking, or have fucked, or will fuck. Whatever the verb tense is.

“Hey,” TJ says. “Can you guys watch him for a minute? I want to go grab a few things from the medicine cabinet.”

“Sure,” Natasha tells him. “I’ll poke him with my toe if he gets too much blood on the upholstery.”

“Um… cool. Thanks.” TJ can hear Sam mildly berating Natasha again as he jogs down the hall and into the bathroom and begins rooting around for necessary supplies. There’s an old Ace bandage from his last ill-fated squash game with Dougie, and he grabs that, along with a couple of washcloths. On his way back, he stops in the kitchen to retrieve a small dish that he fills with warm water.

“He’s not really all that banged up, considering,” Sam tells TJ when he returns. “Mostly the ankle and the sore ribs. He’s more dirty than anything else.”

“Hence the spongebath.”

“Nat!”

“Sorry, but that’s what it looks like TJ’s going to do. TJ, am I wrong?”

TJ shakes his head, but wearily.

“See?” She flutters her long lashes at Sam, who sighs again.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” Sam promises TJ, who just shakes his head and laughs a little.

“It’s okay. I just want to get him cleaned up a little.” TJ dips one of the washcloths into the bowl of water and dabs it around Steve’s face.

Steve stirs again, and blinks slowly, taking a while to focus. When he does, he smiles. “TJ.” His fingers move like just-hatched moths and TJ meets them with his own, lacing them together.

“So B.W.,” Natasha says, but fondly.

“Nat, I think we’re gonna have to go.” Sam walks over, collects Natasha’s shoes, and makes a c’mon gesture. “You and I have alien goop on us, too, and if Steve’s awake, I feel all right leaving him here with TJ. The S.H.I.E.L.D. docs gave him enough painkillers to last until he’s mostly healed up.”

TJ’s still computing what Natasha said. “... B…. W…?” he asks, confused, and Natasha lets out a fucking giggle, which sounds about as natural on her as a shaved head would look on Tony Stark.

“... I’ll tell you later,” Sam says, and gestures again to Natasha, who hops off the couch lightly and goes to meet Sam by the door, sitting down to put her boots back on.

TJ turns his attention back to Steve, then, who’s mostly conscious but groggy and _very_ smiley, following all of TJ’s movements with a glazed expression and getting in his way by grabbing TJ’s hand to press slightly sloppy kisses to it.

Later, TJ will open the text from Sam that says, “B.W.= ‘barf-worthy.’ Something so cute and romantic it makes you want to hurl. Not sure if it’s on urbandictionary but it’s in Nat’s urban dictionary. Sorry about her, but what can I say? She’s cute.”

TJ just laughs and texts back, “You’re totally fucking, aren’t you? So B.W.”

But in this moment, all his focus is on Steve, cataloging the bruises he can see while silently wondering how much damage is hidden under the uniform. Gently, he slides his hand out of Steve’s and begins carefully easing the navy blue material off those broad shoulders.

He pauses and bites his lip. He knows there’s a zipper down the back of the suit -- he’s studied all the photos of Steve in this getup with narrow-eyed intensity -- but he can’t reach it like this.

“Okay,” he says quietly, decision made. Steve blinks at him, and TJ tries to smile a little. “Be right back.”

He grabs a pair of utility scissors he hasn’t used since he bought them and heads back to the couch, where he finds Steve wincing as he tries to sit up.

“What are you _doing?_ ”

“Gonna …” Steve groans as he twists, trying to stretch his arm to reach the back of the suit. “I want to get this off.”

TJ brandishes the scissors. “That’s what these are for. Stop moving.”

Steve frowns a little and shakes his head. “No, we can save the suit.” He shifts again and then freezes, his face going pale as his lips draw into a thin, tight line.

“Fuck the suit. Okay? It’s replaceable. You aren’t. Don’t ask me to watch you hurt more than you need to.” It looks like Steve’s going to argue the point, and TJ crouches beside the couch to cover Steve’s hand with his. “Please.”

His voice only trembles a little.

Then Steve’s tugging him closer, up onto the couch and into his arms. TJ goes willingly, but as he leans into Steve’s side, he hears a tiny exhalation. Pain. Steve’s in pain, and he’s putting himself through more pain to comfort TJ.

TJ scoots backward, shaking his head. “Jesus, sorry, sorry! Don’t let me hurt you.”

"I can take it," Steve swears, tugging TJ’s arms more tightly around him, mindful of his grip, even as he pulls TJ’s hands roughly over his own bruises.

The smile TJ gives him is tinged with something like sadness, as he gentles his touch, slows his pace even more. "Yeah, but the thing is? You don't have to. Let me be good to you, okay?"

Steve shudders a little, and TJ strokes his side.

“Now let’s get you out of this suit.”


	20. This Body is Yours and Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faithful readers (and fickle ones alike), we are coming to the end. If you check the chapter count, you'll see that we'll be winding up this story the very next time we post (which will be June 15, because that'll be our first friendaversary -- we met a year ago, started writing this together only a few months later and now here we are).
> 
> So as always, thank you for your feedback (and your patience when posting is slow).
> 
> Our song for this chapter is "Mess Is Mine" by Vance Joy.
> 
>  
> 
> _You’re the reason that I feel so strong / The reason that I’m hanging on_

TJ wakes with a gasp, heavy-limbed with dread as he tries to force himself awake. His whole body feels like it’s anchored to the mattress, and his heart’s thumping so furiously he’s sure Steve can hear it. 

_Steve._

TJ flails an arm out, fingers fumbling over blankets until they brush warm, solid skin, proof that Steve is here and mostly whole. Proof that the dream that pulled him out of sleep was only a nightmare, and the alternate script for Sam’s phone call that his brain produced is just cruel fiction. He’s here. Steve’s here. They’re safe. He sags in relief for a split-second before stiffening in guilt as Steve murmurs his name and stirs.

“Shhhh, it’s fine, go back to sleep,” he whispers, only to watch his plan backfire as Steve blinks, looking for TJ through groggy eyes. Steve’s hand gropes for his, holding it in place, and TJ gives it a gentle squeeze before trying to retreat. Steve’s supposed to be resting and healing, and TJ’s supposed to be able to hold it together enough to let him.

But in this moment, his skin is damp with panic sweat, and the heat from the blanket is intense enough that he checks, and no, his flesh isn’t actually melting. He can’t quite draw in enough air. His free hand twists in the sheet, tugging hard enough that it pulls free at the corner of the mattress, and the sudden lack of resistance means that he nearly elbows himself in the face.

His desperate effort to fall apart in silent stillness is failing, but TJ focuses on his own pale fingers where they’re twisted in the dark cotton of the sheet, trying to ground himself. One shaky breath, then another, and he starts to level out. He wants to slip out of bed, out from under from this sheet that’s clearly judging him and the blanket with flesh-melting intentions, and go put his cheek on the cool tile of the bathroom floor. His hand’s still held in Steve’s, so escape -- even for the worthy cause of letting Steve rest undisturbed -- is impossible.

TJ forces his shoulders to relax into the mattress, shoving his head into the pillow as if he could tunnel through it by will alone. But that path, too, is closed to him.

And anyway, it’s too late.

Steve’s pushing himself up on one elbow, pushing through what TJ knows is pain, and that momentary sleep-sent confusion is only a memory. This is the soldier, waking on a battlefield, his whole being ready to assess the threat and respond.

The only threat to his peace, though, is the man quietly trembling beside him, and that realization makes TJ shake a little harder, even as Steve looks him over with sharp eyes, skimming a hand quickly down his side. Checking for injuries. Like TJ’s the one who’s hurt.

“I’m fine,” TJ gasps out, and the wobble in his voice is a betrayal. If he could glare his own vocal cords into submission, he would. 

“You’re not fine.” Steve’s voice is quiet steel, and his eyes are still roving over TJ’s body, hunting down invisible wounds. “Nightmare?”

TJ swipes at his cheek furiously, shrugging an answer to Steve’s question. “Just my brain being stupid. Nothing new.” 

Steve breathes in deeply, and TJ can see both the effort it takes him to hold back a frustrated reply and the wince when his ribs protest. All he can think is _I’m hurting Steve_ , and he hurls silent epithets at his brain and his body and his broken past.

“I’m fine,” he says again. “Yeah -- a nightmare. But you’re here. You’re … you’re gonna be okay.”

He tries to keep his voice level, but it wavers at the end, and it doesn’t take enhanced hearing to pick up on his doubt. 

“Teej. I _am_ okay. A little bruised, a little sore --” TJ glares at this and Steve leans forward until their foreheads bump gently. “I’m gonna be fine. I promise it’ll take more than tentacles or a really determined taxi to keep me away from you.”

“I was ready for tentacles, I think. I wasn’t ready for taxis. You know? To have something so ordinary be the thing that hurt you.”

TJ closes his eyes, and Steve slides a hand around the back of his neck, keeping him close. A soft kiss, then another, and now TJ’s arms are winding carefully around Steve’s shoulders, searching for a place that won’t hurt.

“Come on,” Steve urges, dropping his mouth to TJ’s neck, taking advantage of TJ’s caution to haul him forward, so TJ’s awkwardly straddling his lap.

TJ makes a halfhearted noise of protest and wriggles backward approximately one half inch before Steve stops him. 

“It’s okay,” Steve soothes, chasing the words with a kiss, and God, the taste of him is butterscotch and home, and it’s hard to have reservations about anything that feels like this. “I promise. We need this; I need _you_.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He’s said it before, and he’ll keep saying it until he’s sure that Steve is really hearing him. TJ’s not arguing about need; need is flowing between them like magnetic current, and now that he’s got his hands on Steve, he’s not sure he could pull away if he tried.

“It’s the good kind of hurt.”

And there is a difference. Steve’s trusting TJ to walk that line, and for Steve, TJ would crawl through lava in slow motion. 

The warmth from being held against Steve’s chest is anything but stifling, and TJ lets one hand drift very, very slowly down Steve’s side, dipping gently under the briefs he’d helped Steve tug on last night.

They were a joke. A gag gift. The most indecent boxer briefs one could imagine, with a flag stretching across the cheeks. But there’s nothing funny about this moment, or about how beautiful Steve looks as he holds still under TJ’s touch, clearly desperate not to react in a way that might make TJ reconsider his current path.

“Feel good?” TJ’s not even sure at first that he managed to speak; when he gets his hands on Steve, his mouth tends to go a little dry. But then Steve moans, moving his head just enough to count as a nod, and TJ takes that as the plea it is.

He keeps going, letting fingers that are practiced in the perfect touch work their magic on Steve’s skin. Now it’s Steve’s turn to fist his hands in the sheets, Steve’s turn for skin damp with sweat -- and it’s TJ, making a nightmare into something sublime. He takes Steve apart with care, listening to every moan, watching Steve’s face for any sign that this pleasure might not be worth the pain.

All he finds is a mirror of his own love.

This battle is one Steve’s meant to lose, and he finally concedes, muscles straining as he breathes TJ’s name and his whole golden body shivers in satisfaction. 

Steve’s still trembling when he pulls TJ forward again, kissing all the skin he can reach. “Y’see,” he slurs into TJ’s skin. “Good kind of hurt.”

TJ sighs and curls a little closer, sleepy again. “S’good. Just give it a few days before you throw a party, though, okay?”

***

Tony Stark has never been one not to go all-out, and he certainly doesn’t disappoint for the pizza party TJ’d promised Corey. 

TJ’s always picked up on the slight friction between Tony and Steve at times, but tonight, it’s all he can do to keep Steve-- resplendent in his replica WWII-Cap uniform-- from running over to keep hugging Tony. 

“You got him a piano.” Steve says it under his breath the next time Tony circles back over to where TJ and Steve are standing, watching Corey have what looks like the time of his life crawling around on an adult-sized jungle gym with Natasha, Sam, and Clint. 

“Not just _any_ piano,” TJ feels the need to add. “Tony bought the kid a fuckin’ _Steinway_.” TJ’s not much for swearing nowadays, but it just feels right. 

Tony’s not making eye contact, fisting his hands in the pockets of his blazer. “Eh, kid deserves something nice. Seems like he has a shitty dad. I know what that’s like.” 

Steve’s silent, and TJ is, too -- not wanting to get into issues regarding Howard Stark at the moment.

“Plus,” Tony goes on, “it’s not just for Corey. It’s for all the kids at the VA. It’s just got Corey’s name engraved on it. Although” -- he adds this last bit in nonchalantly, like it’s an afterthought and not a headline in and of itself -- “I did throw a chunk of change in an account for the kid, too. He can use it for music school or college or hell, to travel the world, I don’t care.” 

“Jesus,” Steve says, just as TJ says, “Christ.” 

“I… I don’t know how to thank you, Tony,” TJ finally says, but Tony’s already brushing him off. 

“So don’t. I wanted to do something, so I did. Such is life as a gazillionaire. It’s less nice when you know that I have enough money to do it for, like, every kid in Brooklyn.” 

“I know,” TJ says. He’s no stranger to having a family with more money than wit. “But it means something. To me, I mean. To me and to Steve, that you’d do something like this for us. For Corey.” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, but this time his gaze meets TJ’s. “So you’re welcome.” He seems to get uncomfortable after this uncharacteristic display of emotion and figuratively pulls the Iron Man mask back on. “So.” He claps his hands and steps away from TJ and Steve. “Who’s ready for more pizza? Cap? Cap’s more-attractive sidekick?” 

Steve squeezes TJ’s hand, and TJ watches Corey come running over, trailing Natasha behind him like a slightly grumpy balloon. 

“Look!” he exclaims to TJ as they go past. “I’m gonna eat pizza with the Black Widow!” 

Natasha treats them to a long-suffering smile, but when she turns back to Corey, it’s all real. 

When TJ thinks about it, he can hardly believe it. A year ago he was… well. He was, and that’s about it. Now, he’s surrounded by friends, love and _purpose_. So what if he’s not climbing the Hill daily or doing anything of historical note? He never wanted to be his father, or his brother. And right now, it feels pretty good to just be TJ. 

***

The party wraps up in early afternoon, and Tony treats Corey and his grandma to a ride home in one of his ridiculously fancy supercars. Corey looks like he couldn’t get any more excited, and TJ pulls Steve in close for a kiss as they watch him leave, scampering ahead of the two adults. 

“Pretty successful party,” TJ says, nuzzling Steve’s smooth jaw with his own in that special way he knows Steve likes. “Plus, you look pretty damn sexy in that outfit.” 

Steve smiles ruefully. “It was a hit, I can’t lie about it.” 

“No, you certainly can’t.” TJ moves in a little closer, getting dangerously close to hickey territory and completely forgetting that there are still others around, clearing up some of the party paraphernalia. 

“Aw, get a room,” Sam says, and TJ breaks away from Steve’s neck, feeling himself blush. He’s a little embarrassed, but Sam’s smile is good-natured. 

TJ considers a moment, then shoots back, “Already got one. Got a whole apartment, in fact!” 

“Well, then you two get your cute asses over there,” Sam tells them. “Nat and I will finish up here.” 

“Oh we will, will we?” Natasha hops down from her perch on top of one of the tables and goes over to stand next to Sam, who seems to pause for a microsecond, and then pulls her in close to him by the waist. 

“Oh, so it _is_ like that, huh?” TJ asks mildly. 

“Yeah,” Sam replies, long and slow. “It’s like that.” 

Natasha allows about two more seconds of being held by the waist before she pushes at Sam’s hands like a cat who’s done being held. “Off,” she says. “Touching is for at home.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Steve remarks. “Saw that coming a mile away.” 

“Shh!” Sam says in an undertone, watching Natasha pick up used napkins and silverware and pile them on a plate. “It’s still new.” 

“Mm,” Steve says. “Well, she must like you, because most people who touch her seem to lose the ability to use their hands.” 

TJ has a brief, momentary mental image of Sam tied to a headboard while Natasha makes him beg. Yup, seems pretty likely. He almost manages to control his little grunt of laughter, but not quite. 

“What?” Sam and Steve ask at the same time, and TJ ducks his head. 

“Nothing,” he says, and then tiptoes to Steve’s ear: “tell you later.” 

“Okay, then,” Steve proclaims, squeezing TJ’s hand. “I guess we better get on home. You ready, babe?” 

TJ takes a moment, then squeezes back. “Yeah. I’m ready.” 


	21. Everywhere on Earth You Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note (from viedangerouse/superstringtheory): I have a lot of sappy things to say about how much I’ve loved writing this fic with [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) and how much it’s meant to me. Here’s an indication of how I knew I’d found an amazing friend in her: after LESS than a month of knowing her, she convinced me to a) write a novel-length TJ/Steve fic with her and b) buy a plane ticket to a comic-con to come and meet her. Both of these turned out to be fantastic decisions. This story has been my little beacon of light in what’s been a really long year at a really shitty job, and often the best part of my day is when I get to google chat with [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) and work in a google doc with her either simultaneously or time-shiftedly. Tl;dr: thank you, Marvel, and Captain America, for bringing me to this lifelong friend and helping me find my love of writing again! <3 Also, thank you to all of our Constant Readers- you bring so much happiness to me. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> And from greyskygirl/whowaswillbe: I call her my kink soulmate, but she's so much more than *just* that. [superstringtheory](http://superstringtheory.tumblr.com) is someone I've talked to literally every day since we met a year ago. I have to admit, I was a little nervous asking her to write with me. What if our styles didn't mesh? What if we loved each other's work separately but hated writing together? Well. That's not how it happened, and so now we've finished the longest piece of fiction I've ever written ... and I have a friend I'll have in my life forever. As for the story: like she said, we have loved writing it, and we have loved all your feedback. Here is your short (and sweet) coda to our first collaboration. Maybe, just maybe - and by that I mean definitely - you'll see future glimpses at some point of these two from us. We love them too much to let them go forever. (Happy friendaversary, E. <3)
> 
> Oh, and I almost forgot - the song for this final chapter is "When I Get My Hands On You" by the New Basement Tapes. 
> 
>  
> 
> _And now you know / Everywhere on Earth you go / You’re gonna have me as your man_

TJ blinks and it’s summer. June is creeping steadily toward July, and everything he sees seems to be tinged with a golden glow, an admission that makes him feel sappy and ridiculous but no less convinced of its truth.

Even the boxes stacked in his apartment add an air of cheerfulness, but that’s likely because of what they mean, rather than any secret affection for cardboard. His never-spacious-to-begin-with apartment is a little on the cramped side these days, and TJ couldn’t be happier about it. Even when he trips over a box of records at 2 a.m.

Living with Steve is worth a bruised foot. _Worth everything_ , TJ’s besotted mind warbles, and he shakes his head as he walks down the hallway. He stops in the doorway and stares for a long moment, never less overcome by the feeling that, despite everything, he is an incredibly lucky man. This. This is why it’s worth it.

Steve’s sitting in the oversized chair by the window, sketching, so intent on his work that he hasn’t noticed TJ. The mid-morning light’s streaming in, and there’s that glow again. TJ’d be tempted to call it a halo, but Steve’s no angel. Just the best man he’s ever known. 

And he’s here, in their home, brow furrowed in concentration as his pencil scratches rapidly across the paper. Their “new-to-us” rescue cat is following the motion of Steve’s pencil from her perch on the bed, intent but not moving closer. 

TJ bends down to pet her and Steve looks up. “That cat hates me,” he says, faux-dramatic. “The two of you gang up on me.” 

“Aww,” TJ says, moving over to sit on the arm of the chair, patting Steve’s leg. “She’s just more of a one-person cat, I guess.” 

“And that one person is _you_.” 

“Well…” TJ sighs and then laughs a little. “Maybe.” 

“I guess I can’t really blame her,” Steve continues. “We have the same excellent taste in men.” 

“That you do,” TJ concedes. “Plus, she just takes after me. I’m a pretty one-person kind of guy, too.” 

“Me too.” Steve tilts his head upward to capture a kiss, and TJ almost falls off the arm of the chair. 

“And she’s never getting over the fact that you gave her a boy’s name.” He lets himself slide into Steve’s lap, and they both stare at Freddy, who raises a paw, gives it one delicate, haughty lick and leaps off the bed, stalking out of the room.

“It was romantic!” Steve protests, sliding a hand under the back of TJ’s shirt. 

“Chopin, I know, all the romance. But Freddy doesn’t care that she’s named after the guy who wrote the song I played before I blew you for the first time.”

Steve pinches his thigh. “Romantic,” he repeats stubbornly. “And they told us she was a boy cat!”

TJ snorts, burying his face against Steve’s shoulder. “Yeah, and you couldn’t possibly have checked that intel.”

Steve’s face is red, and it’s maybe more adorable than his piano students dressed up in tiny finery at the recital. TJ laughs again and kisses the spot of color on Steve’s cheek.

“We love you, Freddy,” he yells, and Steve digs his fingers into TJ’s side, tickling him until they both fall out of the chair in a happy heap. TJ’s cheek is smashed against the thick shag rug, Steve’s weight is crushing him more than a little and he wouldn’t think it a hardship if they just stayed like this all day.

Domestic bliss. Who’d’ve thought.

***

The next morning is Monday, and even though it’s tempting to laze in bed with TJ, the morning sun streaming through their blinds and Freddy climbing all over them, Steve gets up early. He’s restless for some reason, and he putters around the kitchen making the French press coffee TJ likes and tidying up. 

Well. He knows why he’s restless. The Supreme Court is reconvening today, and rumor has it that they’re going to make a decision. 

Steve never thought he’d be pacing around waiting for it to be legal to drop on one knee in front of a guy instead of a gal, but-- well. He never thought he’d meet TJ. 

Steve takes a few more moments to peek in on the aforementioned TJ, who is still sleeping, hair askew and face pressed into the pillow. Freddy has wedged herself underneath his arm and she blinks lazily when she sees Steve. 

Steve checks the clock and laces on his running shoes by the door. It’s still early enough to have time for a run and a shower before he has to get to the VA for his volunteer session with the old vets. He ties a double knot and heads out the door. 

***

By the time he gets back from a run that was longer than he intended, Steve only has time for the quickest of “Navy” showers and a brief peck on TJ’s coffee-flavored lips before he has to leave for the VA. If there’s one thing he values-- and there’s more than one, but this one's a biggie-- it’s that he’s never late for the old men, who’ve had to deal with plenty already in their lives. The least Steve can do is be on time. 

His hair is still damp when he checks in with the VA nurses to make sure it’s still all right for him to go and collect Carl and Craig from their rooms. It usually is, but sometimes the old men aren’t feeling well and Steve doesn’t want to intrude or make them feel bad that they aren’t able to come and visit. 

As soon as he receives the a-okay, Steve heads down the hall and brings first Carl, then Craig to the little sitting room where they normally have their visits. Gayle and Harold make their way in slowly while Steve’s going to get Craig, and Steve greets them all as he pushes Craig’s wheelchair into place. 

The conversation starts out as usual, with discussion of the older days and how things just aren’t the way they used to be. Steve, who was twenty-six in 1944 and again in 2011, can concur. Times are weird now- often confusing and nonsensical to someone who grew up in the early 20th century. 

Still, Steve has to admit that the 2010s have their own value, and he’s admittedly a little lost in this revelation when Gayle pats his arm. 

“What about you, Steve? You and that cute little fella of yours?” 

“What? Sorry.” Steve gives his full attention to the old sailor. “I didn’t catch that.” 

“We were talking about the Supreme Court decision,” Craig says. “Should be today.” 

“Uh-huh.” Steve nods. “Should be.” 

“We were just saying that you and that little bugger of yours could get hitched, then.” Craig gives Steve a smile and an exaggerated wink. 

“Oh.” Steve swallows. “Yeah. I mean”-- he runs his hand through his hair-- “I want to. I just want it to be right, you know?” 

“It’s right.” Carl’s voice is soft but Steve’s hanging on every word. “We’ve all seen the way he looks at you-- and you at him.” 

Steve suddenly feels like he’s under a spotlight, and his face gets hot. He swallows again, then leans in to the makeshift circle a little more. 

“I guess I can let you fellas in on a secret, then. I’ve already got the ring. Just waiting for the legal stuff.” He sighs. “Been ready for a while, but unfortunately, Captain America has to do some things by the rulebooks.” 

The men nod in agreement and give Steve warm words of encouragement. The conversation moves on to something else, but Steve’s not paying as much attention as he should, because the next thing he knows, there’s a red BREAKING NEWS banner on the screen of the perpetually-on TV bolted to the upper corner of the room. 

Before he knows it, he’s out of his chair and racing down the hall to TJ’s piano lesson room. He gives a brief knock on the door but doesn’t wait for anyone to answer, instead bursting in. Corey stops in the middle of what he’s playing and TJ’s eyes meet Steve’s with a certain type of intensity. 

Then he’s across the room in what feels like one step and he’s kissing TJ with tongue right in front of Corey, who looks simultaneously grossed out and approving. 

It’s not the end of their story-- far from it-- and even though Steve’s technically been alive for almost a century, somehow it feels like a beginning. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to come say hello, scream about the fic or its characters on Tumblr, please do! Over there, we're [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) and [superstringtheory](http://superstringtheory.tumblr.com).


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